


A Different Kind of Alpha

by kitsunequeen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Torture, Trust Issues, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 46
Words: 125,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunequeen/pseuds/kitsunequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>For the request "runaway!stiles x alpha!derek? Something along the lines of a broken Stiles runs away to Beacon Hills and is caught trespassing on Hale territory then Derek and his pack teach Stiles how to heal and love again and then sterek happens?"</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>Derek regains his footing and stands over the man, who can’t be more than twenty. He has brown hair and what might be moles, but it’s hard to tell past the layer of blood and grime he’s covered in. At the very least, Derek’s sure they’ve never met before.</p><p>The man looks up at him with wide eyes, his entire body trembling. </p><p>“I’m Derek Hale,” Derek begins again, letting his eyes bleed red to make his point. “Alpha of the-”</p><p>The man cuts him off once more, this time by passing out. From the looks of him, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I heard something out there,” Cora announces, flopping down on the couch. “I’m not in the mood to chase something down, especially if it turns out to just be a deer, but there was definitely something in the woods.”

 

“How far out were you?” Derek sighs. Frankly, he’s not in the mood for a deer-chase either.

 

“Not far,” Cora says. “This thing was pretty deep into our territory. I couldn’t smell it from where I was, but something was crashing through the trees about half a mile off, and it sounded like it was in a hurry.”

 

“Maybe it was an omega,” Isaac offers, not bothering to pull his eyes from the TV screen.

 

“You think an omega would come onto our land?” Derek asks. “They’d know better than that, wouldn’t they?”

 

“Maybe he’s not from around here,” Cora suggests, and Derek can tell she’s quickly becoming absorbed in whatever show Isaac has on. Meaning, of course, that this woodland whatever-it-is is about to become Derek’s problem.

 

“So you think I should check it out?” he asks, already standing.

 

“Mmmmmmm.”

 

“And I’m guessing neither of you wants to give me a hand?”

 

“I’m sure Boyd or Erica would be happy to help.”

 

“Actually, fair warning. You probably don’t wanna disturb those two right now,” Isaac says, smirking.

 

Derek makes a face, and mutters, “Fine. But if it’s just a deer or something, you guys are gonna be the ones doing dishes tonight.”  

 

Cora flicks a hand at him, as if to say _whatever, just go,_ and with a roll of his eyes he does, heading out the front door and into the woods.

 

* * *

 

Normally, Derek loves a run in the woods. It’s a good way to clear his head, and to give himself some alone time. Occasions like this, though, are always just annoying. So far, every time it’s either been some type of animal, a visitor from a neighboring pack, and one time even a lost human whose car had broken down. Never once has there been a threat on their territory. Not since Kate, who, unfortunately, they had invited willingly. But after her, they’d learned to be wary of any potential threats, and so they check things like this out. Or more specifically, Derek does.

 

He gets about a quarter mile out before he stops to sniff. There’s nothing in the air, no indication that anyone’s been here recently except Cora. That means they’re probably running away from the house, not towards it, and that Derek can probably just let them go. He won’t though, just to be safe.

 

He slows down a little, more at a jog, and tries to enjoy being outside. He’s been having a long week, and it’s probably good for him to get out anyway. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the trees and fresh air as it fills his nose.

 

Then he hears it.

 

Faint and faraway, but clearly there. Something is indeed running through the woods, apparently caring much more about speed than stealth. That once again increases the chance that it’s not running towards the Hale house, but away from it, or away from _something_ , though Derek doesn’t know what. He himself is probably the scariest thing on the property, and no matter how much Cora likes to tease him about it, he’s really not a terribly scary guy.

 

Derek tries to listen for something it could be running from, but he doesn’t hear anything else. He changes course to curve around and hopefully cut off whatever’s so desperate to get away.

 

As he nears, his senses are assaulted. The acrid stench of fear in the air is overwhelming, and it’s accompanied by blood. The thing’s heartbeat is racing, and it’s a wonder it hasn’t given itself a heart attack by now.

 

Either an extremely perseverant animal had been attacked, or Derek’s going to need to call the cops soon.

 

Not that the ones around here are any help. _This land is under your jurisdiction, Alpha Hale. You’re free to deal with infractions however you see fit._ What idiots.

 

If it _is_ a person, he figures he should probably help, or at least see what the hell they’re running across his territory and bleeding for.

 

“Hello?” he calls.

 

No answer.

 

Maybe someone in one of the neighboring territories had gotten in a fight. Shouldn’t their alpha be out here too, then? Unless it _is_ an alpha? But that seems unlikely, unless something’s gone very, very wrong.

 

“Who’s out here?” he tries again.

 

The fervent breaking of branches comes to a crashing halt. Apparently they heard him, this time. If they had missed him the call of an alpha the first time, either it’s not a werewolf, or they’re even more desperate than Derek thought.

 

“Come out,” Derek continues loudly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m alpha of-“

 

He cuts off as the creature starts running again, even more fiercely than before. He sighs, and decides he’s tired of the chase. He picks up the pace, dodging through the trees in the direction of the noise, ready to head it off.

 

He hears it coming around a bend and steps out from behind a tree. The thing—a man, he notes, and not a werewolf—collides with Derek’s chest.

 

Derek stumbles back a little, not having expected to be hit with such force, while the man crashes to the ground on his back, where he quickly scrambles to prop himself up on his elbows.

 

Derek regains his footing and stands over the man, who can’t be more than twenty. He has brown hair and what might be moles, but it’s hard to tell past the layer of blood and grime he’s covered in. At the very least, Derek’s sure they’ve never met before.

 

He looks up at Derek with wide eyes, his entire body trembling.

 

“I’m Derek Hale,” Derek begins again, letting his eyes bleed red to make his point. “Alpha of the-”

 

The man cuts him off once more, this time by passing out. From the looks of him, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner.

 

Derek frowns and stoops to pick him up; even a trespasser deserves to have his wounds looked at, and this guy seems to have a multitude of them.

 

 _Well,_ Derek thinks as he starts trekking back towards the house _. At least it wasn’t a deer._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a chance to update earlier than I thought:)

"Who the hell is that?” Isaac asks, gaping along with Cora as Derek walks in the door.

 

“No idea,” Derek says. “Get up, I need to put him down.”

 

They both hurry to comply, still staring in awe as Derek sets the wounded man on the couch.

 

“What do we do?” Cora asks, frowning. She looks like she wants to get closer, but Derek shakes his head.

 

“Don’t touch him, I don’t want to make anything worse. We don’t know what happened to him, and he was probably already jostled pretty badly by me carrying him here. Give Deaton a call, and let the sheriff’s station know too.”

 

Cora gives him a look, because they both know Sheriff Haigh is useless, but she heads into the next room to call anyway.

 

“What do you think happened?” Isaac asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “But I don’t want anyone leaving this house. Do me a favor and go let Erica and Boyd know, too.”  

 

“I told you, they’re-“

 

“I _know_ ,” Derek groans. “Go slip a note under the door if you have to, I don’t care, but don’t let them leave. And try to get a hold of Peter’s cell if you can. I don’t know where he went off to, but we need him back here soon, too.”

 

“Alright,” Isaac shrugs, heading upstairs. “And I guess you’re still doing the dishes tonight, huh?” he calls over the railing.

 

“ _Isaac_.”

 

“I’m going, I’m going.”

 

* * *

 

“Derek, could you come downstairs for a moment?” Deaton asks, reappearing from the basement.

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, standing to follow him back down.

 

The basement is cold and uninviting, rarely ever used except by Deaton. It’s not the most pleasant of places, with its stone walls and heavy, lockable door, and manacles secured to the back wall. It was originally meant as a place for new betas to spend the full moon, but as emissary to the Hale pack, Deaton had essentially claimed the space when it wasn’t in use. The betas were mostly content to stay away anyway, not eager to bring back memories of those nights.

 

Deaton had long ago set up a metal examination table and cabinets lined with medical supplies. Currently lying on the table is the man, his shirt removed and a blanket covering his bare legs. Deaton had cleaned most of the dirt off, but that only left him looking worse than before. His entire chest is wracked with bloody lines, some healed over, others steadily oozing a mixture of blood and pus. Huge bruises have left most of the visible surface of his body covered in varying, awful shades of purple, yellow, and green. It almost makes Derek cringe to look at him; werewolves get hurt, heal, and are done with it. This man will likely be in pain for weeks, if infection doesn't kill him first.

 

 _Don’t think like that_ , Derek scolds himself. Deaton will certainly be able to save him.

 

He manages to tear his eyes from the man’s chest to travel to the rest of his body. He has two black eyes that Derek had missed under all the dirt, a split lip, and gashes in his left cheek and forehead. His wrists are still bleeding as well, horrible lacerations that look like they’d scabbed over and been torn open over and over again.

 

“He’ll be coming to soon, and I wanted to show you this first,” Deaton says seriously. “We can’t know exactly what happened till he wakes, but his injuries give me some indication. This was around his throat,” he says, picking up a discarded piece of cloth. It’s dirty and Derek can smell it from where he stands.

 

“A bandanna?”

 

“A gag, I think,” Deaton says. “And his wrists almost surely indicate having been tied up somewhere. The wounds appear to have been caused by coarse rope, perhaps alternated with chains. His clothes were in tatters, as I’m sure you noticed, and he carries no identification.”

 

Derek stomach sinks as Deaton talks, but it’s hard to accept the implication. He just looks at him, waiting for him to continue. 

 

“He appears to have been kidnapped. Held hostage, at least, for an indeterminable amount of time.”

 

“And tortured?” Derek asks, voice tight.

 

“And tortured,” Deaton agrees solemnly.

 

He looks as though he’s waiting for a response, but there’s really nothing for Derek to say to that.

 

“Is he going to be okay?” he finally manages.

 

It’s a stupid question, the answer can be read from the man’s body like a book, but he needs Deaton to tell him differently.

 

“I’ll need to examine him more closely first,” Deaton says. “I put disinfectant in his wounds and cleaned him up a bit, but a more thorough examination is going to be needed to tell us the full extent of his injuries. Of course, when he wakes he’ll be able to tell us more himself, and that should help. You said he was running when you found him, and the ability to run is probably a good sign, though no doubt it wasn’t good for his injuries. I’m going to make a quick stop at the pharmacy for more painkillers; I doubt my supply here will be enough. When he wakes, make sure he remains lying there. I don’t want him upsetting his wounds any further.”

 

He walks upstairs without another word, but considering how maddeningly cryptic Deaton usually is, Derek considers this session a win.

 

Derek moves a little closer to the table, standing over the man to get a better look at his injuries. He’s beginning to move around a bit, still half out, but a grimace is quickly taking over his face. He lets out a low moan, and Derek instinctively reaches out a hand, setting it on the man’s chest. Black lines crawl up Derek’s arm as he leeches some of his pain.

 

After five minutes or so Derek pulls his hand back, not able to take much more for now, and hopes Deaton gets back soon. The man begins squirming harder, and Derek gingerly places his hands on his shoulders, careful to avoid bruises as he holds him in place.

 

The man slowly opens his eyes, blinking hard as he apparently tries to register what’s going on.

 

Derek was never good with words, never much of one for comfort, but he says quietly, “You’re safe, don’t worry.”

 

The man seems suddenly much more alert at the words. His gaze snaps to the pressure on his shoulders, then to Derek. His eyes go wide in recognition and he starts struggling in Derek’s grasp, taking in huge, gasping breaths.

 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re fine-” Derek tries.

 

The man is apparently uninterested in calming words, and lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Derek jumps back in surprise, and he hears the betas upstairs scrambling for the doorway.

 

“Stay there,” he calls up to them. “Don’t come down.”

 

“Get _away_ ,” the man says desperately. He has the edges of the table in a death grip, his knuckles white, while inching backwards, still staring at Derek with terror in his eyes.

 

“You’re okay,” Derek insists, beginning to get a little desperate himself. He wishes his mother were here. He hadn’t wanted to be alpha, to have the responsibility of dealing with these situations. He was never good at this kind of thing, and now here he is, scaring a wounded man half to death. He takes a step closer, apparently a very bad idea.

 

“ _Get the fuck away from me_ ,” the man growls, moving back so far that he falls off the table and crashes to the floor. The smell of fresh blood enters the room, with the hard ground having reopened his cuts. Even as Derek gapes, the man seems unperturbed by the new wounds, his only concern being to get away. “Leave me alone!” he screams, clambering backwards on the floor until his back hits the wall. He stays there like a cornered animal, eyes darting all around for escape. When he sees there’s nowhere to go, he lets out another scream, which dissolves into a choking cough, sending chills down Derek’s spine.

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, holding up his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture. The man _needs_ to calm down soon; the sedative Deaton had given him probably isn’t agreeing with the way his heart is hammering.

 

“ _Please_ ,” the man bites out, and it sounds angry and desperate and pathetic all at once. “Leave me alone.”

 

Tears stream down his face, making tracks in the bit of dirt left there.

 

“Okay,” Derek says, slowly backing away. “It’s okay, I’m going, it’s fine.”

 

He makes it to the stairs and backs up them, not taking his eyes from the man till he’s reached the top.  

 

The last thing he hears before he shuts the door is another ragged breath, followed by violent retching.

 

Deaton needs to get back here. Fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Lemme know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the positive response so far!

The door creaks open and Stiles pushes himself a little further into his corner.

 

“Hello? I’m coming downstairs now. Please don’t be alarmed,” a voice announces. Stiles supposes the tone might be soothing, if it weren’t coming from a werewolf.

 

At least it’s not the alpha; that’s what’s important.

 

_Not an alpha, just a beta. Alphas are worse. Deep breaths. Just a beta. Deep breaths. A beta with claws. Deep breaths. And fangs and eyes. Deep breaths, just breathe, don’t think about it, deep-_

 

“Is that alright?”

 

If his throat didn’t feel like it was on fire, Stiles might bother with a sarcastic reply. As it is, it’s probably better not to piss them off so soon, anyway.

 

There’s a long pause, and the fact that the person has any patience at all is astounding. “I’m going to come downstairs now,” the voice finally says. “Please try to remain calm. We’re only trying to help you.”

 

Stiles wraps his arms around himself, attempting to shield the worst of his injuries. His puke had already had blood in it, and another hit to the stomach anytime soon... well, he’s not stupid.

 

He watches as measured footsteps make their way down the stairs, slowly bringing more and more of the speaker into view. He feels like prey being stalked by a careful hunter, and there’s nowhere left to run.

 

_“Nowhere to go, little human.”_

_“Such a_ shame _.”_

_“You put up a good fight. We admire that.”_

_“You’d make an excellent beta.”_

_“Too bad we don’t need one.”_

_“Don’t worry though—Stiles, is it? We’re not going to kill you. Yet. We want to have our fun, first.”_

By the time the man comes into full view at the bottom of the stairs, Stiles is trembling again.

 

“I’m Dr. Deaton,” the man says. He keeps his distance across the room, and on some twisted level, Stiles is appreciative. “Derek tells me you’ve reopened some of your wounds, and I really haven’t even gotten to tend to the old ones yet. If you could just sit on the table for a while and allow me to check you over, we could get this all sorted out.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, curling up even further in on himself.

 

“Leave me alone,” he rasps out.

 

The man winces, and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s from how hoarse his voice sounds, or how generally pathetic he must look.

 

“I know you must be frightened, but if you just tell us your name and where you’re from, we can try to get in touch with your family. If you’ll lie down for me, I can assess your injuries and try to get you fixed up.”

 

Yeah. Like he’s going to tell these people where anyone he knows is. What, so they can grab them too, and turn the whole group over to the alpha pack? Sounds like a great plan.

 

Stiles just glares at him, pretending he doesn’t look as completely helpless as he surely does.

 

Deaton takes a step forward, hands raised in the same stupid way Derek’s had been.

 

“If you come any closer I’ll fucking kill you,” Stiles snarls.  

 

The threat is empty, pathetically so, considering it would probably take a good deal of effort just to get himself back off the ground. Still, Deaton doesn’t laugh at him, only frowns.

 

“I want to help you.”

 

“Why the hell would I want your help?”

 

“You’re bleeding,” he says, and it sounds so reasonable Stiles almost laughs.

 

“Well I hate to ruin your gorgeous cement floors, but I’d rather not have some random fucking psycho in a lab coat operate on me, thanks.”

 

The bluff he’s pulling is absolutely ridiculous, because he knows as well as anyone that he’s going to die of something—something, because really, there could be a pretty exciting round of bets going on which injury will get him first—if he doesn’t deal with this soon. The running hadn’t been good for him at all, but he had gotten away, and that’s all that really matters.

 

“We could take you to the hospital,” Deaton offers. “But I would likely be the one to deal with this case there, too. I’m assuming that’s why Derek called me in. He prefers to do things from home, with the pack.”

 

The offer is so ridiculous Stiles could scream. The Hale Pack, _the_ Hale Pack, the ones the alphas had spent days whispering about when they thought Stiles couldn’t hear, were going to bring him to the hospital and call his family and let him live happily ever after. This was probably step two of whatever the hell this is. The alpha pack got to play with him first, and this pack next. That’s probably the only reason Stiles was able to get away from the alphas at all. This alpha, this Derek fucking Hale, probably liked to chase his quarry first, and so they had let Stiles go for him to hunt down. He wonders how much these assholes had paid for him.

 

 _'Take you to the hospital_.'

 

Right, okay.

 

“Here would probably be easier,” he continues, and yeah, who didn’t see that coming?

 

Stiles is about to tell the man exactly what he thinks of that idea, but when he opens his mouth, he finds himself throwing up again. He doesn’t miss the burning feeling that tells him it’s still mixed with blood. He hears the doctor approach, but isn’t exactly in any position to stop him.

 

He’s vaguely aware of the man talking to him, spewing crap about, “if you’ll _please_ just come with me,” and, “you _need_ medical attention,” and whatever else, but that’s really the least of his worries when he feels like he’s about to puke his guts out.

 

It stops, finally, leaving Stiles pale and quaking, even weaker than before.

 

“We _have_ to do something,” Deaton says, much too close now.

 

Stiles shakily pulls himself to his feet, swaying dangerously, the only thing still holding him up being his desperate grasp on the stones of the wall.

 

“I’m fine,” he insists, watching the man root around in his bag.

 

“I’m sorry to do this when you’re against it, but if you don’t let us do something about this soon you’re going to bleed out, or worse.”

 

Deaton pulls a syringe from his bag, and Stiles, with the last of his strength, reels his fist back. He connects with Deaton’s face the same instant the needle enters his arm.

 

He feels himself slipping, both mentally and physically, and he’s too weak to protest when Deaton grabs him by the arms and lowers them both back to the ground.

 

“Please,” Deaton says. “Is there someone we can call for you? Can you tell me your name?”

 

“Stiles,” he finds himself slurring, and it scares him. If they just got him to admit that so easily, what else could they make him do in this state?

 

“A last name?” Deaton asks. “You’re going to be alright, I promise. But is there anyone we can get for… can give a call… sheriff will come by later… you’re okay.” Stiles decides perhaps Deaton’s voice actually is soothing, as it fades away. “—to be fine… get you… no… hurt you… Stiles… everything will be…”

 

The last thing he sees before he blacks out is the concerned look on Deaton’s bloody face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the lack of Derek, but hey, here's a bigger glimpse of Stiles!  
> Lemme know what you thought:)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I am SO sorry this took so long! I've been writing Valentine's fics lately, and been wrapped up in schoolwork, but I finally found time for this. I'll be back to timely updates from now on. Also, I appreciate all the comments last chapter, thank you!

“Well,” Sheriff Haigh says, putting his phone in his jacket. “My deputies say there’s no ‘Stiles’ in the system in all of Beacon County. If he’s from here, he doesn’t have a record.”

 

“What do you suggest we do?”

 

“You can do whatever you want, Alpha Hale. He’s on your land.”

 

“This is different,” Derek says, annoyed. “We’re not punishing him, we’re trying to find out who he is. That’s something your men can help with. He’s human, so your department should be trying to find out who did this to him.”

 

“The doctor said the wounds look werewolf-inflicted. I can’t put my guys on the line in the middle of some werewolf power struggle.”

 

“There is no power struggle,” Derek insists. His alpha side might normally be a little pissed at the insubordination, but he’s been dealing with Haigh long enough to know that the man is just plain lazy, and nothing short of threats that Derek is unwilling to issue will get him to go his way. “There’s a hurt human on my land, some wolves might’ve gotten ahold of him but they’re  _gone now_ , and he’s officially your problem.”

 

Haigh shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Alpha Hale,” he sighs, and he’s honestly lucky he’s part of Derek’s territory, because another alpha might have him on the floor by now. “I simply cannot risk lives by putting out a search. It’s not just some feral omega, it’s a kidnapper. He’s got the smarts of a human and the strength of a wolf. If you want this guy found, you’re going to have to put your pack on it. You can call some hunters, maybe-”

 

“I’m not dealing with hunters,” Derek says immediately.

 

“Fine. None of my business. But your mother would’ve called in the Argents-”

 

Derek growls, low in his chest.

 

“Or the  _Calaveras_ ,” the man continues, remembering he’s hit a sore spot. “The most I can do for you is take the guy off your hands, bring him down to the hospital and then to a holding cell at the station till we figure out who he is.”

 

“He didn’t do anything,” Derek huffs. “You can’t just throw him in a cell because you don’t know his name.” 

 

“He’s locked in your basement,” the Sheriff says, cocking an eyebrow. “Which is well within your rights, Alpha,” he’s quick to add upon seeing Derek’s glare. “I’m just telling you your options. Keep him locked up here, keep him locked up with me, or turn him over to the hunters. Your choice.”

 

Derek sighs. The sheriff isn’t wrong, technically. If it was some rogue wolf, Derek’s the one in charge of that. They’ve really got to get a few werewolf cops down at the station, because he’s not up for dealing with these kinds of situations by himself.

 

“The way I see it,” Haigh continues. “The hunters wouldn’t be any good anyway. They’re too rough; they’d probably just scare a guy like him. The guys down at the hospital could be good for him, but I’m assuming you don’t want to let him go till we get to the bottom of this, and our holding cells aren’t the coziest of places. And you know I’m taking a bunch of the deputies down south to help the guys over in the next county with those bank robberies. There’s only gonna be a few of the older guys at the station, and they’re a little gruff. He stays here, you’ve got the doc to watch out for him, and he’s under the protection of an alpha. You wouldn’t need to worry about the guy coming back, right?”

 

 “No,” Derek says slowly, thinking it over. They’d have to be an idiot to try to kidnap someone from right under an alpha’s nose.

 

“Good,” the sheriff says. “So he stays here. That all you need help with?”

 

“Get the news crews off my property,” Derek sighs. “The last thing he needs when he wakes up is a bunch of swarming cameramen in his face. I’ll give a statement later. You can tell them there’s no information to disclose at this time, except that it’s been deemed safest he stays here till we find out more.”

 

“Gotcha,” he agrees, making his way out the door. “See you, Alpha.”

 

“Goodbye.”

 

\------

 

Derek doesn’t know how to feel once everyone’s gone. He had somehow ended up agreeing to keep this guy in his house for an indeterminable amount of time. This guy who’s absolutely terrified of him. Good plan.

 

“How’d it go?” Cora asks, thumping down the stairs, with the rest of the pack in tow.

 

“He’s staying here.”

 

“Here as in our house?” Isaac asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you thought it would be a good idea to keep the scared, beaten human in our house because…?" 

 

Derek relays his conversation with the sheriff to them, and is met with general approval.

 

“If he thought for two seconds that you were going to turn him over to the Argents, even to Chris, he’s out of his mind,” Erica scoffs.

 

“I know,” Derek mutters. “And he should know the Calaveras aren’t any better.”

 

“You know,” Peter pipes up, and Derek has to refrain from rolling his eyes. Peter rarely offers any actual advice on things, usually only being good for sarcastic remarks and occasionally making dinner. “I think it’s a good idea to keep this  _Stiles_  here. Maybe he’s got some good information on other packs. Why else would someone have been… well,  _torturing_  him?” he asks, voice full of disdain.

 

“We’re not going to use him for politics,” Derek snaps.

 

“ _Use_  is such a harsh way of putting things,” Peter drawls. “We’d simply be asking him for a little help. No forcing involved. Nothing wrong with him  _giving_  us any information he’s picked up.”

 

“We have a good relationship with all the surrounding packs, and even if he somehow knew anything about them we wouldn’t use-” he shoots Peter a pointed look “-him for information, anyway. If that’s the reason someone took him, we’re not going to do the exact same thing they did.”

 

“We’d just be asking the man, Derek, not torturing him. Honestly, you talk like I’m some kind of savage.”

 

Derek, rarely one to actually pull the alpha card, flashes his eyes red.

 

“We are not demanding, using him for, or even  _politely asking him_  to give us any information. I don't care what he knows. End of story.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Peter acquiesces. “Who wants a sandwich?”

 

\------

 

Stiles wakes up lying down, and the first thing he registers is relief. He’s not strung up from the ceiling, nor does it feel like he’s chained to anything. Whatever he’s lying on is soft, and god, the last time he laid on something soft was — the next thing he registers is panic. Where is he? Why is he laying down? Where are the alphas? What’s going on?

 

He springs up only to feel fire rip across his body, and immediately throws himself back down.  _Shit_. Where the hell is he?

 

Things come back in pieces; the alphas, escaping them, running through some woods for who knows how long, and then another alpha. Right. But there’s no one standing over him, no taunting voices or red glowing eyes. And this bed is soft. Had he been rescued?

 

He sits up more slowly this time, only to be faced with irrational disappointment when he sees he’s still in the newest alpha’s house. Duh, of course no one had come to save him. Scott and his father had been threatened up and down, and god, who even knows if they’re alive anymore, because of course those idiots would try to save him and—he feels his chest tighten and wills himself not to think about it. The alphas had been quite clear on what would happen if anyone tried to come for him.

 

_You’re not helping anyone by panicking. Get the advantage while the alpha is gone. There has to be some way out of here._

He forces himself to slide off the table and manages to get into a mostly-standing position, leaning against it. He takes a few deep breaths, both to ward off the panic and because moving takes a lot of exertion. His limbs feel heavy and he notes, distantly, that the man claiming to be a doctor had drugged him. He’s not exactly sure why these people are even bothering to pretend they want to help him; then again, the alpha pack hadn’t meant for Stiles to hear their whispered conversations about the Hales, so perhaps they thought they could have some fun messing with him. Stiles, though, remembers quite clearly.

 

_The Hale alpha is going to want him._

_I know._

_What are we going to do?_

_We’ll figure it out. Deucalion’s not going to want to hear that we can’t pass his land just because Hale will want the man._

_He could force us to give him over, you know. The pack is only six, but it’s a large territory. If he hears word we’re coming by, Stiles is his._

_Maybe we can try to get some money out of him._

_Maybe._

 

There were countless conversations like that, some better, some worse, all of them centering on the point that Hale can be vicious, that his pack is strong, that he’ll  _want_  Stiles. He’d thought it was sheer fortune, the universe finally deciding that it had slapped him around for long enough, when he had escaped the alphas. It was just his luck that he only got away to end up on Hale territory, and probably because the alphas let him, deciding that handing him over to this Hale guy would be the best decision. If he can make a whole pack of alphas worried, Stiles doesn’t even want to know what’s in store for him. He wonders what state they’re even in anymore; it must be out in the middle of nowhere if this alpha’s got a huge territory but no government ever checking in with the goings on. Or maybe they’re just too scared to. That could be a thing, right? Like how maybe there’s actually aliens living on mars and maybe a meteor will strike the earth tomorrow and maybe there was never actually a moon landing. Stiles was never one for conspiracy theories, but there could be rogue alphas, too, couldn’t there? If the ones who had taken him could be allowed to exist, then why shouldn’t this one be able to have his own territory?

 

He once again reminds himself that panicking isn’t helping—it’s become something of a motto for him, these days, even though no matter how many times he reminds himself of it, it’s yet another thing that’s not really helping—and begins to scan the room. The staircase leads to a heavy metal door, certainly locked. There are cabinets lining the walls, locked as well, but he’ll have to at least try with those, see if there’s anything able to be used as a weapon. The table he’s leaning against, while metal-topped before, is now covered by a mattress. The back wall has a row of shackles attached to it, enough for eight people, and Stiles shudders. He doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse that he’s alone down here, but at least no one else has to deal with this situation.

 

The lack of windows tells him that he’s in a basement, and really, how cliché. He’s spent enough time in basements lately to last him a lifetime. It’s eerily silent, and guessing by the kind of money these people seem to have, the room is soundproof. He wonders if it works both ways, because that could be useful, but figures werewolf hearing probably trumps soundproofed walls. 

 

He slowly pushes off from the table, taking small, shuffling steps towards the cabinets on the wall. When he stops to grab at his chest, he realizes, belatedly, that there’s gauze wrapped all around his torso, and that he’s wearing a shirt again, though it’s not his. It seems strange that this pack might actually be trying to heal him, but it makes sense in a way. Stiles had been about as bad as he could get, and unless he healed a little first, they wouldn’t be able to play with him for very long.

 

He reaches the cabinets, and grasps the counter below, panting. He tries not to think about how his only chance of escape is if these cabinets were to contain a machine gun or something, seeing as he can barely make it five feet on his own. He reaches up to one of the padlocks, inspecting it. It’s heavy duty, nothing he could probably get into. At least not without making a whole lot of noise.

 

Suddenly the door creaks, the sound of a lock being undone, and Stiles feels his stomach fill with cold dread. There’s no way he can get back on the table and pretend to be asleep by the time the person gets downstairs.

 

He stands there, frozen, and for a moment everything is impossibly still. Then a piece of paper comes floating into view, swishing around as it falls. It lands a few feet past the bottom of the staircase, and Stiles stares, wide-eyed.

 

There’s the sound of the door creaking shut again, and Stiles squints across the room at the sheet of paper. It’s folded in half, but in large, black letters, the outside reads,

 

** STILES**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little more information on how society works, here. Lemme know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just spent the last half hour editing this chapter and rewording things and I was really happy with it, and as soon as I reached the last five or so lines the window closed. All on its own. My editing was deleted and I re-fixed everything I could, but my brain's kinda fried at this point, so I apologize for any mistakes or bad wording; it was probably fixed before.  
> Also, thanks for all the nice comments last chapter!

It’s comical, almost. A note slipped in through the door like they’re children and this is all some game. Or maybe it’s more like a bad movie. Maybe when he opens it he should be expecting magazine letters cut and pasted, telling him,

 

**Y**   _o_   **U**    _HA_   **v**  E   _T **h**_  rE  **e**    **D**   _a_  Y  **S**    ** _T_  **o   _L_   **i**  v  **E**

It’d be something new, at least. He has to make a decision, whether to go for the note or the table, but decides the table is safest. Give it twenty minutes, and if no one follows the paper down then it’s okay to look. This way he can pretend he’s still asleep for a while.

 

He wobbles his way back over to the table, and god, getting on takes quite a bit more effort than getting off. By the time he’s laying down he’s out of breath, and it feels like a few stitches have ripped. He inhales deeply and releases it a few times and begins to count. It’s not only a way to tell how long it’s been, but it’s become something of a coping mechanism he picked up to get through things _. Detach yourself from the situation, count the seconds, that’s a new record, count the seconds, it can't last forever, count the seconds._  He’s still itching to get up and just grab the damn thing, but forces himself to lie still.

 

When the door reopens towards the latter half of his counting, Stiles is infinitely glad he stayed in bed. Something lightly clangs down the stairs and there’s a quiet, “sorry” from the top landing that he isn’t sure the meaning of or who it was directed at. Then the door swings shut again and he makes himself wait longer, thirty minutes this time.

 

_Two-thousand nine-hundred sixty-eight mississippi, two-thousand nine-hundred sixty-nine mississippi, two-thousand nine-hundred seventy mississippi, two-thousand--_

It hasn’t quite been fifty minutes yet, but he figures he’s waited long enough by now. He pushes himself back up—and really, he just hopes his body can forgive him one day—and makes his way over to the note. The second thing that had fallen down the stairs is apparently a felt-tipped marker; these people are smart, he decides, not even giving him a pencil to be sharpened into a weapon. 

 

He picks the note up as he gingerly lowers himself to the floor. He unfolds it slowly, feeling stupidly apprehensive. He’s literally sitting in their basement, so a simple threat note shouldn’t bother him as much as their physical presence, and yet he can feel the panic building in him by the second.

 

He hadn’t really expected the neat handwriting he’s met with, and he doesn’t like the reminder that these are actual people, not just some ridiculous villains. They can have neat handwriting and calming words and felt-tipped markers in their kitchen drawer that no one can ever find when they need one, but that’re ready to be thrown down to the run-of-the-mill hostage you keep in your basement.  _Stop it,_  he orders himself.  _Just see what they want._

 

 

_Hello Stiles,_

_This is Dr. Deaton. I wish to inform you that you seem to be healing well enough, and that none of your wounds appear fatal. When you feel up to it I would like to discuss what happened to you in greater detail, to allow myself a better understanding of just what went on and the proper way to treat you. We assume you’ve figured it out by now, but no claw marks that were left were deep enough to turn you, nor have you been given The Bite. I implore you not to put yourself through any unnecessary exertion, seeing as we don’t want you to worsen what’s already happened, or to bring new harm upon yourself. Now that you’re more coherent, I apologize once more for sedating you against your will. It’s commonly done at the hospital, when necessary, but as you know these circumstances are far from normal. That said, I ask you to trust my judgment in future; I'm the head surgeon at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, as well as emissary to the Hales for some thirty-odd years, and have quite a good track record with my patients. As the situation is now less dire, all medical treatment will only be performed with your approval, unless the situation becomes once more out of hand._

_My regards,_

_A. Deaton, M.D._

He doesn’t allow himself a second to stop and think about it, because the bottom half of the paper is filled with different handwriting, and the first line catches his eye immediately. This is who he wanted to hear from.

_This is Derek Hale, Alpha of the Beacon County Territory. You’re currently in my house, along with myself and my five betas, four of whom are around your age. It has been decided by the sheriff and I that it’s best for you to stay with me for now. Whoever harmed you will not be coming back. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. Please tell us anything you think you’re going to need. If you’re in a lot of pain please let us know. If you’re ready to talk to us, let us know. If you could tell us your full name, age, hometown, or means of contacting family members or friends, it would be extremely helpful. Please write back._

_Derek Hale_

 

Stiles’ head spins a little; there’s so much information, and yet there’s hardly any. He’s not dying. At least, that’s what the so-called doctor says. He’s felt like he’s dying before though, and while everything hurts like hell, it’s not the same. So that’s good.

 

The comment about him not having been turned sets him on edge a little. The alphas had threatened it enough times, sure, but they weren’t stupid enough to actually do it. They probably would’ve needed wolfsbane-infused something or other to ensure he didn’t escape them with his new strength. This pack makes it sound like an even worse idea, in theory, but maybe it’s not. Supposedly this Hale guy is pretty freaking strong, and presumably so is his pack. They have an emissary, too, and aren’t those guys usually like half-magic or something? And who’s to say the emissary isn’t bitten? He wonders if he’s meant to take it as a threat. Or maybe it’s not even a threat, maybe it’s just a plain old, straightforward,  _Derek’s gonna bite you so keep that in mind_. It kind of fits, actually. Like, really well. Derek had said he has four betas around Stiles’ age. There’s enough shackles down here for all of them, and why else would he have bothered to bring them up? He finds himself unconsciously rubbing at his throat, where he can still feel the ghost of Kali’s fangs.

 

He skips over the empty apology and promise, and the bragging about his excellent track record, and moves down to Derek’s note.

 

Who the hell is the sheriff? Is that some weird nickname or something? He remembers watching some zombie show with his father where the villain had been called The Governor-- and god, that feels like a million years ago. It’s amusing, in a way, some big bad alphas walking around giving each other nicknames. Maybe there’s  _The Sergeant_ and _The Colonel_  to watch out for too. Deuacalion still probably wins the award for it, having called himself  _Death, Destroyer of Worlds_ , which would've had Stiles cracking up had he not been choking on his own blood for questioning the man in the first place. He reasons Derek must be the one in charge if he had gotten to keep Stiles, so he figures he may as well not worry about this sheriff guy anyway. For now, at least.

 

The rest of the note is fairly ambiguous, too much so for Stiles to put any kind of actual stock in it.  _Whoever harmed you will not be coming back._  Had the alphas been killed? Why is he acting like he doesn’t know who they are? Had it been some sort of faceless transaction? Is Stiles not actually supposed to be here?  _You’re safe._ Till we can be sure you won’t die on us.  _No one is going to hurt you._ Yet. _If you’re in a lot of pain, let us know._ So you can know when I’m conscious? So you can make it worse?  _If you're ready to talk to us, let us know._  Honestly, he doesn’t even have an idea of what that’s supposed to mean.  _Please write back._

 

Oh, he will. He turns the paper to the other side and prints out his message, scratching each individual line out with purpose. When he’s done, he folds it back in half, feeling satisfied. Then, less satisfied when he realizes there’s really no way for him to get it back up to the landing because stairs? Serious no-no.

 

He stares down at the paper for a second, frustrated, and then it hits him. He folds the note into a paper airplane, and writes,

 

** ALPHA HALE **

 

on one of the wings. He pulls his arm back and forth a few times, then launches it. It flies beautifully, and he silently thanks Scott for all the time they had spent having paper airplane flying contests as kids. It floats perfectly down to the landing, and Stiles grins. Then laughs. Then laughs and laughs and laughs, hilarity overtaking him because he’s sitting in a werewolf’s basement, kidnapped, throwing paper airplanes. When had this become his life?

 

* * *

 

 “Don’t make any noise,” Derek instructs, as the betas crowd around him outside the basement door. “I just want to see if he wrote back.”

 

“We know, Der, c’mon,” Cora says, shoving at his shoulder. “It’s already two in the morning, let’s hurry this up a little.”

 

“I wanted to make sure he was asleep."

 

“He’s probably not even  _awake_  yet,” she insists. “So if we could get this over with sometime today…”

 

“Alright, alright.” He unlocks the door gently, doing his best not to wake Stiles. “He left the water bottle here,” Derek mutters, frowning. “Why would he do that?”

 

“Uh, I think this is why,” Isaac says, ducking under his arm to grab the note. “Don’t think he can actually climb stairs.”

 

“Oh my god, we are so not up to this,” Erica groans. Before Derek can stop her, she grabs the ziplocked sandwich and water bottle and darts down the stairs, depositing them at the bottom, then hurries back up.  “No wonder he hates us. And he’s asleep, by the way,” she adds, before Derek can complain.

 

“We’ll figure all this out,” Derek sighs, then waves a hand at Isaac. “What’d he say?”

 

Isaac unfolds the note, eyes widening for a second before he smirks a little.

 

“What?” Derek demands. “What is it?”

 

Isaac smooths the note out against his leg and then holds it up. In large, dark letters it reads,

 

** FUCK **

** YOURSELF **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, yikes?   
> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!  
>  ~~There'll be face-to-face interaction again soon, I promise!~~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the nice comments last chapter<3 There were also a few really in-depth opinions on things, so thanks for that too!

Stiles remains perfectly motionless, keeping his breathing flat and light and even. He does his best to force his heartbeat to be steady. There are footsteps on the stairs and he wills himself to just hold still, to keep it up and feign sleep and maybe, just maybe they won’t notice. He digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, trying to focus on anything but how fast his heartbeat probably sounds. _In through your nose, out through your mouth, empty your mind, nothing’s the matter, in through your nose, out through your mouth, dig a little deeper, god someone's down here, in through your nose, out through your mouth, they’re back on the stairs, maybe it’s okay, in through your nose—_

 

“No wonder he hates us. He’s asleep, by the way,” a female voice announces from the top of the stairs, and oh god, Stiles could cry. She must’ve not been listening too hard and the gods must’ve smiled on him and maybe being with the alphas did do him one favor, even if it’s only inadvertently teaching him to seem like he’s asleep or unconscious or _anything_ that’ll ward off pain for a while.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” comes Derek’s voice. “What’d he say?”

 

Stiles feels his chest clench.

 

 _Oh god, this was such a stupid idea. What in all hell had convinced him that this was a good plan? The alpha is going to be so pissed._ Why _did he do this?_

 

“What? What’d he say?” And it’s a little harsher this time, a little more concerned or frantic or something, and god he’s so in for it, and it’s really a shame they hadn’t just bound his hands because at least he wouldn’t’ve done something so _stupid_ , and wow, maybe he should write all his high school teachers letters of apology, because he really _doesn’t_ have any common sense and-

 

There’s a cacophony of laughter from outside, and Stiles tries to pick out how many voices are there, and comes up with five, not counting Derek, who hadn’t laughed. _Five_. There are at least six people right outside the door. He wasn’t expecting this many of them to come.

 

“Shut up,” Derek snaps, and the door swings shut.

 

Stiles tells himself he didn’t cringe.

 

* * *

 

“Shut up,” Derek snaps, closing the door. “Do you want to wake him up?”

 

The pack stifles their laughter, a little, but the look on Derek’s face really isn’t helping.

 

“Der, we’ve had the longest day ever, it’s past two in the morning, and the guy in our basement just told my big brother to fuck himself. It’s a little amusing. Now goodnight,” Cora says, squeezing his arm and heading for the stairs.

 

He wants to say no, tell them that they have to stay here all night till they figure out some sort of plan, but he knows it’s ridiculous.

 

“Go to bed,” he says. “But Boyd, I need you to hang back a second.”

 

Erica presses a kiss to Boyd’s cheek, then grabs Cora’s hand and heads upstairs, Isaac and Peter in tow.

 

“What’s up?” Boyd asks, leaning back against the wall.

 

Derek doesn’t have a favorite beta; he could never make a choice like that. He has, though, always had a particular soft spot for Boyd. He’s quiet and reserved, level-headed and smart. He doesn’t jump to decisions too quickly, instead taking the time to go over ideas and having the guts to not only tell Derek when his are stupid, but actually coming up with some sort of solution. And he’s willing to stay up at two in the morning to do it.

 

“I need help.”

 

Boyd smiles, just a little.

 

“Couldn’t have guessed.”

 

“I don’t know how to get this guy to talk to me,” Derek sighs.

 

“Everything you’re trying is too indirect,” Boyd says. He doesn’t even pause to think about it, and Derek wonders if he’s been thinking it all day.  

 

“What am I supposed to do? I tried talking to him and he started screaming bloody murder, Deaton tried talking to him and he practically broke his nose. Those are pretty clear signs of not wanting to talk.”

 

“If I got kidnapped, the first person I would want to talk to probably wouldn’t be an alpha either. That’s like talking to the governor in a human district. It’s weird. And Deaton? The guy’s scared, dude. Deaton creeps everyone out a little.”

 

“Well who’s he supposed to talk to? No one? We don’t know where his family is, the sheriff’s outta town starting tomorrow, we ruled out the hospital and the hunters…”

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to rule people out then.”

 

Derek’s eyebrows crease, not liking the direction this is going. “I’m not having hunters in our house.”

 

“Kate’s dead,” Boyd says. “Gerard’s dead. Victoria’s dead. And Chris isn’t a bad guy.”

 

Mention of the Argents is rare, especially Kate, but everyone seems hell-bent on bringing them up today. Boyd doesn’t even mention her carefully, at least not more so than any of her other family members. He doesn’t say it like Derek’s still broken and messed up and can’t stand talking about her, even if it’s true. He says it like a fact, which it is, and it’s somewhat steadying. Kate is dead. And she is. And Derek can focus on other things.

 

“Chris is lucky he’s even allowed to live on my territory,” he says slowly. “Don’t tell me he wouldn’t scare the hell out of a guy like this. The last thing he is is gentle.”

 

“He’s callous, maybe, but he’s human.”

 

“He didn’t care that Deaton was human.”

 

“Or he didn’t know.”

 

Derek starts a little at that. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, and wow, Erica’s right about them not being up for this.

 

He stands there for a minute, trying to work out a decent response, but can only come up with, “I don’t want to leave him with hunters. I know they’re the only ones besides us who can actually protect him from a werewolf, but I can’t trust Chris.”

 

Boyd shrugs, like he was expecting it. “That’s okay,” he says, seeming satisfied that Derek had at least considered the option. “Maybe it’s just the wolf side talking, but hunters wouldn’t be my first choice either. How about the hospital?”

 

Derek sighs, and it seems he’s been doing that a lot lately. “Deaton called me a few hours ago, said the hospital doesn’t really want him there.”

 

“They’re a hospital,” Boyd says, frowning.

 

“They said if the guy comes back looking for Stiles they don’t want to put the other patients at risk.”

 

“He needs a hospital. I know Deaton’s good, and we’ve got just about everything he needs right here, but this guy needs something more real. Hanging around in an alpha’s basement with someone as cryptic as Deaton isn’t fun for anyone.”

 

“Deaton was saying it’s a wonder he’s not just plain unconscious yet after what he went through. If it was just a regular human kidnapping they probably would’ve had him in the hospital with twelve kinds of specialists. Since he’s stable they’re pushing for him to stay here though, even though he’s got everything. Bruises and cuts and burns and welts and- they really messed with him,” Derek says, and he can feel his throat getting a little tighter as he thinks about it.

 

Boyd’s face, always passive, closes off even more. He mulls it over for a while, and Derek lets him.

 

“If they can’t swear to god he’s going to make it, I’d go down to the hospital and pull rank,” he decides. “Remind them  _you're_ the alpha, and if this guy’s not guaranteed to live then you demand they take him.”

 

“He is,” Derek tells him. “Deaton checked him over thoroughly when he was out. He got him burn cream, and stuff for swelling, and put in more stitches than I can count, and did a million other things on top of that, but he said none of the injuries were life-threatening.”

 

The oddness of that isn't lost on Derek. The way Deaton had described it, the injuries were not only non-life-threatening, but deliberately so. The person knew what they were doing quite clearly. Stab wounds that would’ve been fatal in other places were left in just the right spot. Huge welts were left on his back, but none quite hard enough to kill. Claw marks traced his back and neck, but not where they could paralyze. Equally painful, but not equally deadly. Whoever did it wanted him hurt, but alive. Peter’s mention of the captor wanting information scratches at the back of his mind, seeming more and more likely. But if that’s it, what does Stiles know? Is _he_ the dangerous one?

 

“That’s messed up,” Boyd finally says, interrupting his line of thought. “But I think we should keep him here then. Don’t risk the other patients, and let Deaton keep doing his thing.”

 

“What about him not trusting me?”

 

“You’ve gotta earn it,” Boyd says, shrugging.

 

“How?”

 

He doesn’t mean to sound so helpless, but trust is clearly the last thing Stiles wants, and it doesn’t look like there’s much he can do about it.

 

“Derek,” Boyd says, and his tone indicates there’ll be weight to his words. “You know a lot of people who didn’t trust anybody for a long, long time. And now they’re your pack. You can do this.”

 

Derek promises himself for the millionth time that the minute Boyd’s old enough, he’s going to make him his Second in Command. The guy has more than earned it.

 

“I gotta get to bed,” Boyd says after a moment. “Erica’s probably waiting, if we’re done.”

 

“Go on. And thank you,” Derek says, locking eyes with him.

 

“’Course,” Boyd says, giving a meaningful nod before he starts for the stairs.

 

“And Boyd?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You should talk more,” Derek says, an old joke between them when Boyd gives much-needed advice.

 

“You should listen more,” Boyd finishes, with a final tired smile. “’Night, Derek.

 

“Good night.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles hasn’t had a panic attack in a while now.

 

 _I’m fine,_ he tells himself resolutely.

_If they were going to hurt me they would’ve done it already._

_They’re not going to hurt me._

 

Which is a lie. But lying to yourself is fine. Everyone tells you you’re not supposed to lie to other people. But to yourself? Totally okay.

_They’re not going to hurt me._

_They would’ve done it already._

 

He hates himself. Just a little. He hates alphas and betas and damn werewolves in general a whole lot more, but he hates himself too.

 

_I wanted them to laugh._

_That was the whole point._

_Because I’m not afraid of them._

_And every second they spend laughing at their alpha they spend not killing me._

He hates himself because why shouldn’t he have expected all of them to show up the first time? Why should he have expected only one? Why is he so freaked out over this? There were five of the alphas. This is no big deal.

_I pissed the alpha off._

_That’s what I wanted._

_And I look confident now._

_And I_ am _confident._

_That’s why I did it._

He hates himself because this isn’t him. With the alphas he had spent so long being unapologetically sarcastic and rude. And now he’s freaking out over the same thing. Now he feels broken. The part of his mind that’s on the verge of panicking couldn’t care less if this isn’t him. The part that’s still hanging on tells him maybe it is now.

_This doesn’t make a difference._

_They were going to hurt me anyway._

_I don’t even care._

He hates himself because he doesn’t know what’s true anymore. He’s not scared of them. He’s _not_. There’s a very rational, very justified section of his mind that’s afraid of claws and fangs, right next to the section that’s afraid of machine guns and tiger sharks, because those are rational, justifiable things to be afraid of. But these assholes _don’t_ scare him.

_I’m fine._

_They’re not going to hurt me._

_I’m fine._

_I don’t care if they hurt me._

_I’ve been hurt before._

_This is nothing._

He hates himself because he knows he’s afraid of more than claws and fangs. He’s afraid of leering faces and Kali’s breath against his throat and the milky redness of Deucalion’s eyes.

_I can’t take much more anyway._

_I’d probably die before they got a chance to really hurt me._

He hates himself because that thought is comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting in with a little more one-on-one time with the betas, because I want their personalities to be more distinguishable since they're all together so often.  
> And Stiles? Well... I'll let _you_ tell _me_ about that one...  
>  I'd love to hear what you thought!  
>  ~~Oh and uh, for the record, in canon I actually really love Chris Argent.~~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got some cool notes waiting at the end of this chapter;)

Stiles' mouth is dry when he wakes. His throat hurts. He needs to piss.

 

One problem at a time.

 

Except unfortunately, the pain in his, well, _everywhere_ , beats out how desperately his bladder is begging him to get up. He’s not going to relieve himself right there, though, because these are his only clothes and they’re not even _his_ clothes anymore because the stupid pack had taken those, and not having pants is probably the only thing that could make this situation worse.

 

He tries to get up slowly, so slowly, but it doesn’t do anything for the pain ripping across his abdomen, and he finally settles back down in defeat.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes again, waiting is no longer a viable option.

 

Through lots of trial and error—error being the lovely feeling of a stitch popping or a scab peeling open—he finally manages to sit up, by wiggling his feet, then legs, then backside just so. When he has his legs dangling off the table he decides to just go for it, like ripping off a bandaid, and shoves himself forwards, landing on his feet. He grabs at the edge of the table and hunches over it for a few long moments, panting.

 

He’s up though. Awesome.

 

He turns around, leaning his back against the table instead, and catches sight of a water bottle and a sandwich at the base of the stairs. There’s nowhere to actually use the bathroom except the bottle, which means he would have to drink it first, which would be rather counter-productive. He settles on a corner, hobbling over to the farthest one from his table, which is surprisingly easier than standing up in the first place. He finishes, then makes his way back across the room, plopping down on one of the bottom stairs, exhausted. He picks up the sandwich, shoving half in his mouth as soon as he gets the bag open. When was the last time he even ate? He doesn’t bother to inspect it for poison or any other general unpleasantness; he hadn’t done that since the first few days with the alphas, quickly learning if they were going to kill him, it’d be in a much more interesting way than with a fatal PB&J. He might puke if he eats too quickly though—but hey, they actually must’ve cleaned it when he threw up yesterday, so maybe they’ll clean his piss too—so he slows down on the second half. He downs half the water, because his mouth tastes disgusting and his throat is still on fire, then screws the bottle shut and slumps against the wall.

 

He tries not to think about last night, but the thoughts creep their way into the back of his mind, and he settles for at least not dwelling on it. He doesn’t even really remember much of what he was thinking, never does when he gets like that.

 

Something about wanting to die.

 

Which he doesn’t.

 

He has before. When Ennis had relentlessly lashed his back with a belt, when Deucalion had strung him up from the ceiling and carved into his already broken form, when they’d come _this_ close to biting him. But honestly, he hadn’t even really wished for death then. If not for himself then for his father. For Scott and Melissa. For Mom. She wouldn’t have wanted him to die, or to wish for it.

 

So he doesn’t.

 

He fully acknowledges that he might, and whether or not it feels like a relief when it comes is beyond his control, but he doesn’t wish for it. You don’t get out of anything by wishing to die.

 

He wishes for lots of other things, though. More pleasant ones. He wishes for lazy Sunday mornings and beating Scott’s ass in Halo, forcing his dad to eat healthy foods and complaining about finals, pizza on Friday nights and movies on Saturdays, and anything that doesn’t have to do with werewolves. Unless said werewolf is Scott. God, he fucking misses Scott.

 

* * *

 

“This is such a bad idea,” Erica says, for the millionth time that morning.

 

“We don’t have a whole lotta options here,” Isaac shrugs. “I think we should go for it.” 

 

“Someone’s gonna get punched in the face again.”

 

“Are we just supposed to leave him down there forever?”

 

“We could try writing him another note.”

 

“Because that worked out so well.”

 

“No, but if Derek’s note had sounded more personable and less like a caveman-” she says, rolling her eyes right back as Derek rolls his “-c’mon, Der. They were all like five word sentences. I think we definitely need to take care of this, but I’m not gonna be the one going down there.”

 

No one wants to, really. Being the one responsible for further scaring this guy to death would be pretty bad. Still, someone’s got to, and Deaton and Derek are out of the question for the time being. He also probably wouldn’t want to see the alpha’s sister, and Peter isn't an option on principle.

 

The unspoken question had been hanging in the air since Derek told them of his conversation with Boyd. _Who’s going down there?_

 

“I’ll do it,” Isaac sighs, glancing at Derek for confirmation.

 

“You sure?” he asks. “You’ve heard how he is.”

 

“Someone’s gotta do it. But you guys need to stay away. If he thinks you’re all hanging around right outside, it’s not going to help anything.”

 

Derek doesn’t know why, but that bothers him a little. He feels a strange sense of protectiveness over Stiles, but writes it off as his alpha side being possessive.

 

“Be careful,” he warns. “I know you can take care of yourself, but be careful for his sake. Don’t move too fast or raise your voice or anything. And he doesn’t like people getting too close, or-”

 

“I know, Derek. I’ve been scared before,” Isaac says, and the simple words hold so much weight. “I won’t do anything that would’ve freaked me out.”

 

Derek wants to issue more warnings, but he really doesn’t know how to go on, because Isaac probably _does_ know a whole lot more about dealing with something like this than he does, even if his situation was different.

 

He settles for giving Isaac what he hopes looks like a meaningful nod, and Isaac returns it.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the door opening has Stiles’ eyes snapping open. He’d fallen asleep on the stairs, and now there’s a new person staring down at him from the top of the staircase.

 

His instinct is to flee, but he suppresses it. Contrary to what these people probably think, Stiles actually _hadn’t_ started bawling his eyes out every time Deucalion entered the room. He usually just made a sarcastic remark and braced himself for whatever was coming, only allowing himself to freak out internally, or sometimes not freaking out at all. He’d resigned himself to certain things after a while, as scary a thought as that was. At least one alpha was usually with him, anyway, so it’s not like he’s not used to a wolf’s presence. These new circumstances have been throwing him off, but he’s going to have to start dealing with them at some point.

 

He takes his time getting up, and even though the wolf at the top of the stairs can surely smell his anxiety, Stiles plays it cool. Or as cool as he can.

 

He finally manages to stand, then stretches as much as his stitches will allow. He wobbles his way over to a corner of the room and sits back down, curling his knees to his chest protectively. All the while the guy waits there, watching him.

 

Stiles can’t see much of him anymore, but he watches the stillness of the guy’s feet. They wait like that for a long time, at some strange sort of stalemate.

 

Eventually, a voice softer than Stiles expected asks, “Mind if I come down?”

 

Stiles doesn’t answer because it doesn’t really matter, does it? But the guy just continues to stand there, unmoving, while he waits for an answer. A minute passes, then two. Stiles knows it’s actually one hundred fifty-six seconds of complete silence before he prompts, “Stiles?”

 

He says it softly, carefully, and Stiles is forcefully reminded of the more serious times with Scott, and hearing his best friend say his name with such compassion.

 

Reflexively, he finds himself saying, “Yeah?”

 

“Do you mind if I come downstairs?” He pauses, then adds, “You’re allowed to say yes.”

 

“I was going to anyway.”

 

Surprisingly, the guy doesn’t laugh at him and thunder down the stairs regardless, but just stays where he is.

 

“Do you mind if I sit down up here?”

 

Stiles considers it. The guy could just be completely messing with him, but unlike the other four, Deucalion had done stuff like this occasionally too, giving Stiles choices on things. Stupid, meaningless choices, but choices nonetheless. When Stiles had shown surprise the first time, he’d laughed.

“I’m not an unreasonable man, you know,” he’d said in his infuriatingly soothing accent.

They agreed to disagree on the matter.

 

 He decides if that’s this guy’s tactic too, then the next set of options might not be as pleasant.

 

“Yeah, knock yourself out,” he mutters.

 

“Can I move down a few steps? Your choice.”

 

“Go ahead,” Stiles sighs, because he can only see the guy’s torso, and it might be a little easier to tell when he’s lying if Stiles can actually see his face. Though, the rule of thumb when dealing with whether werewolves are lying has become _always_.

 

Stiles hadn’t gotten a good look at him before, but seeing the guy now is actually almost laughable. He knows aside from usually having Adonis-like good looks, werewolves looked just like anyone else, but it's still hard to picture this guy with fangs. He has a head of golden brown curls, and even though he’s far away, Stiles can see the blue of his eyes. If someone popped a halo on his head, he’d look more like an angel than a wolf.

 

“I’m Isaac,” he says. When Stiles doesn’t answer he continues, “I wanna ask you some questions, and you can ask me anything you want, too. That cool?”

 

Stiles doesn’t think the guy is messing with him. He doesn’t know him well enough to tell, but Kali or Ennis wouldn’t have even made the offer as a joke. Ironically, considering they’d kidnapped _Stiles_ , they really weren’t huge joke people.

 

He's under no illusion that the wrong question or answer won’t get his face ripped off, but still. If he can get some answers, he’ll take them.

 

“Go ahead,” Isaac says.

 

Stiles is surprised at being allowed to go first, and he really doesn’t have his question together yet. He’s got about a million, but he’s yet to prioritize.

 

“Are you a werewolf?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He’d been pretty certain, considering all the betas Derek had mentioned, but some confirmation was nice. Of course, all he could do was hope this guy’s answers were honest, but it's better than nothing.

 

“How old are you?” is Isaac’s first question.

 

Harmless enough, Stiles supposes, but he still doesn’t like it.

 

“Twenty-one.”

 

He watches Isaac, but he’s not writing anything down, nor does he seem terribly affected by the answer.

 

“Me too,” he says. “Your turn.”

 

“Is that doctor a werewolf?”

 

“No, just an emissary. Speaking of, how are you feeling?”

 

“Horrible.”

 

He waits, but apparently Isaac is counting that as his question.

 

“Are you born or bitten?”

 

“Bitten. By Derek, five years ago.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know if the throw-in of extra information is meant to get a similar one from him, but it won’t. 

 

“Did you enjoy your lunch?”

 

Stiles has no idea why the guy is going this easy on him, but there must be a much harder round of questions to come. Considering he hadn't gotten to the really juicy stuff right off the bat, Stiles wonders if these people even know who he actually is. That, though, is way too much to hope for. Maybe he was just smart enough to know that those kinds of answers would have to be beaten out of Stiles, and not simply traded for basic pack knowledge. This guy seems way too innocent to do any kind of beating, even if Stiles knows the fangs and claws are quite literally right under the surface. Maybe it's some sort of good cop bad cop routine; he deals with this dude first, and then they send down some big, Ennis-like guy to ask the real questions. He wills himself not to think about that, and to just focus on answering the questions at hand.

 

“I was starving. How many werewolves are really part of this pack?”

 

“Just six. Did you pee in that corner?”

 

The question catches Stiles by surprise, and he actually bites out a laugh.

 

“Not exactly like there’s a bathroom down here.”

 

“God,” Isaac mutters. “Sorry. If you couldn’t tell, we’re not exactly used to this arrangement yet.”

 

“I am,” Stiles says, and Isaac actually looks a little startled. Huh.

 

He wonders if that answer means that Stiles is the first person they’re doing this with. Maybe he should expect more people to join him soon, but that would be a stupid question. In fact, everything he wants to know would be a stupid question. And by stupid, he means something that’ll result in an awful lot of pain.

 

Still, his mouth has always seemed a little disinterested in his self-preservation, and he finds himself asking, “When you say you’re not used to this, does that mean you’ve never held someone hostage before?”

 

Isaac’s eyes widen a little, and he frowns. Yeah. Stiles is so in for it.

 

But rather than springing up to teach Stiles some manners, he says quietly, “You really think you’re a hostage here?” Stiles is about to retort, but Isaac pauses from their little game, and keeps talking. “Shit, dude,” he says, dragging a hand over his face. “We thought maybe you were just scared because we’re werewolves. We’re not keeping you here. We’re not- we’re not whoever did this to you. I promise.”

 

Stiles snorts, because yeah. The Hale Pack means him no harm. They come in peace. Sounds accurate.

 

“I’m serious,” Isaac says, locking eyes with him. Stiles determinedly keeps the gaze. “Look, I’ll go get Derek right now and-”

 

“ _Don’t_ -” Stiles says, almost choking on the word. Maybe he can deal with Isaac, from a safe distance, and at this particular point in time, but Derek is out of the realm of reason.

 

“Alright,” Isaac says gently— _too_ gently for a damn werewolf. “It’s fine. We’re gonna sort everything out. Today, okay? You don’t have to see Derek but- I promise it’s alright, okay?”

 

“Oh really? So I can leave whenever I want?” Stiles asks, not even trying to hide the disbelieving contempt in his voice. This is so dangerous it's not even funny, but he can't bring himself to care just now.

 

“Well, no…” Isaac says, frowning again. “We’re not forcing you to stay here, but we need to know where you are. A lot’s… happened to you. We need you around so we can find whoever’s responsible.”

 

Stiles decides to drop the subject.

 

Isaac keeps glancing towards the door, and Stiles can tell he’s dying to go get his alpha—which is strange, considering they’re clearly not really planning to let Stiles go—but he doesn’t actually get up.

 

“So,” Isaac finally sighs. “You got a last name?”

 

Stiles has the feeling he’s in for a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome news! With the last chapter, this fic passed 500 kudos and 500 subscriptions, which is absolutely insane! There's so much more to come, and nothing encourages me to write more than knowing 500 people get emails when I post a chapter;) So seriously, thanks so so so much to everyone who's subscribed/leaving kudos/commenting/bookmarking/reading, because you're all seriously amazing<3 As a thank you, you can expect a mid-week chapter on Wednesday night (it'll be a flashback, but maybe not the kind you're expecting...). 
> 
> _Anyway_ , as far as this chapter goes, there were some important tidbits of info in here! And of course, Stiles has to leave that basement at _some_ point, so we're working our way there.  
>  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on things!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You'll probably recognize some of the dialogue from canon here.)

Derek determinedly doesn’t listen in on Isaac and Stiles’ conversation. He doesn’t want the pack to, and so he ought to lead by example. But leading by example? It really sucks.

 

Still, everything about Stiles is a mystery, and if Isaac thinks he can help unravel it then Derek’s willing to let him try.

 

He trusts Isaac, always has and always will, but they’ve never dealt with a situation so delicate before, and there are pretty good odds of him somehow setting Stiles off, because _everything_ seems to set the guy off.

 

As he busies himself in the kitchen he reminds himself over and over that Isaac is probably the best candidate for the job. His and Stiles’ situations are worlds apart, and yet they’re similar. As he rummages through the fridge, he realizes that that protective feeling he has over Stiles is much like the one he had felt for Isaac when they first met.

 

* * *

 

_Derek should leave the kid alone. He really, really should. He’s just out here going about his business, digging graves with his CAT. Thing is, the last place some kid—a teenager, really, probably sixteen or so—should be in the middle of the night is out in a graveyard. People have jobs, sure, but doesn’t he have some kind of curfew or something? Aside from that it’s really just a little morbid. Though, of course, some might say the same about Derek, especially since he doesn’t actually work here, and he’s not visiting anyone._

_Personally, he’d spent the day meeting with people who want the Bite. That is, people who want the Bite but not the pack experience that comes with it. As he’s told at least fifteen businessmen today, it’s not a way to help yourself climb to the top of the corporate or political ladder, and it’s not something to be taken lightly. He’s looking for a pack, and a family. He has no desire to have his betas spread out all over the place and never dropping by. Even after meeting with people for weeks, no one’s felt right. The way his mother had always described it, there was just a feeling you got when someone was right for your pack. Either she was exaggerating, or there isn’t a decent potential werewolf in the whole county. He can’t see himself spending time with these people the way his mother’s pack had, and that’s what he wants. If she can’t be here, he can at least honor her by restoring the Hale pack to the prestigious, close-knit thing it once was. At least, that’s what he’d told himself a month ago. Now, after meeting with all these unsuitable people, he’s beginning to get back into the slump he’s been in for years. No pack, no family, and it’s all his fault._

_Till he passed this guy._

_He’s walking home from the coffee shop he’d spent the day at when he goes by the graveyard. He usually avoids the place, because it brings on terrible memories of the family who had been too burned to even bury. He hadn’t really been paying much attention though, and he finds himself passing by when he’s suddenly hit with a terrible smell. He turns to look, but the only person within eyeshot is the teenager, about a hundred feet away._

_He focuses a little harder, searching for the grieving family or sobbing spouse who could be the cause, but the only person here is the kid. Why on earth does he smell like that? He doesn’t_ look _upset._

_Derek watches from a distance for a while with a strange sort of fascination until suddenly a figure comes shooting out from behind one of the graves and flings itself at the CAT with enough force to knock it over. Derek stares, torn between chasing the thing down—it must be an omega, and it’s a testament to how much Derek’s been letting his territory fall apart that there’s one running rampant—and helping the kid who’d fallen into the grave he was digging._

_The rogue wolf should be priority, but the kid already has him intrigued, and he has a strange desire to talk to him; maybe he can find out what’s the matter._

_Derek jogs over and stands at the grave’s edge, peering down._

_“Need a hand?”_

_The kid stares up at him, fear in his eyes, and he realizes that oh, he must think Derek’s the omega. Funny that he doesn’t seem to recognize the alpha of his own territory, but it’s dark and he’s scared, and Derek spends most of his time as far away from the general public as possible anyway._

_Derek steps a bit closer, as far as he can go, and crouches down._

_“I’m Alpha Hale,” he offers, letting the red bleed into his eyes._

_“I know,” is the quiet response he gets. He’s still giving off that awful smell, grief and guilt and fear and pain, and Derek doesn’t know where any of it’s coming from, but despite his usual avoidance of people, he finds himself wanting to help._

_“Then let me help you,” he says, and reaches out a hand._

_The kid frowns, and Derek holds back the urge to roll his eyes, because as curious as he is, it’s late, and the guy is in a terrible position to refuse assistance._

_Derek creases his brow and stares at the kid till he offers a tentative hand. Derek grabs it and pulls him up and out with ease, but he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath as the guy lands._

_“You alright?”_

_“Yeah I’m- I’m good. Just freaked I guess. Thank you, Alpha.”_

_Derek frowns, giving him an appraising once over._

_“I meant your arm. You hurt it?”_

_“It’s no big deal. Just landed on it, I guess.”_

_The kid lies unflinchingly, despite being right in the face of an alpha, but Derek can hear his heart skip a beat. Weird. Still, maybe it's just because he’s scared and his pulse is going a little fast._

_“Good,” Derek says, maybe a little more gruffly than he meant. “You got a name?”_

_“Isaac,” he says, shifting his feet. Derek can tell he’s dying to go, but something just doesn’t feel right. “I should probably get back to work.”_

_“If you hurt your arm, maybe you should just head home,” Derek suggests, frowning._

_“Gotta get this grave done,” Isaac says. “The funeral is tomorrow.”_

_“I’m sure your boss will understand. And I can vouch for you. Besides, your parents would probably want you home.”_

_That’s a lot more than he would normally ever offer to a stranger, but he really is trying to get better at this alpha thing._

_Isaac doesn’t say anything, just makes a noncommittal noise as he glances back to the grave._

_“If it’s that important, then here," Derek sighs. He walks over to machine and squats down, slowly lifting it till it’s back upright._

_“Oh dude, thank you,” Isaac breathes, looking incredibly relieved. "Alpha, I mean. Thanks, Alpha."_

_Derek doesn't bother correcting the unnecessary formality, but instead just nods, turning to go._

_He hears the sound of Isaac slumping back against his CAT, and he makes it ten steps before he pauses, and can’t help but to turn back._

_“Isaac?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Where’d you get that black eye?”_

* * *

_Normally biting teenagers involves parental consultation and long discussions and sometimes even paperwork. An alpha respectable enough to have a territory can, technically, bite anyone they want, but it’s usually looked down upon by the other alphas, and frowned upon by the humans._

_If the person, even underage, is consenting, it’s usually more acceptable. Still, human parents like to think their kids are safe from being bitten at random. This isn’t random though. He let Isaac go home last night to think it over, and told him to take his time. When Isaac shows up the next day with a split lip, muttering something about being sure, Derek still doesn’t know. It’s his first pack member, and he’d been so picky, but something about Isaac feels right, and something in Derek wants to protect him. He wants Isaac to make a good decision though, and to be sure he knows what he's getting himself into here._

_The more he hears him defend his father, the angrier Derek gets—not at Isaac, of course, but at the monster he’s protecting._

“He doesn’t mean it.”

 

“It’s just a coping mechanism.”

 

“He hasn’t always been this way.”

 

"I set him off." 

 

_“Think it over again,” Derek says, and sends him back to a home that’s hardly worthy of the name._

* * *

_He doesn’t show up again for two weeks, and Derek is seriously considering sending the sheriff down there to check things out, despite Isaac begging him not to. He’s gotten used to the idea that Isaac probably won’t be pack, but he at least wants him to be safe._

_When he shows up again, he’s in a better headspace than the other times. He’s not hurting and ready to make a spur of the moment decision. He doesn’t smell of pain or desperation, but the ever-present fear is still under the surface._

_“Please.”_

_It’s hard and determined, but there’s an underlying nervousness, like he’s afraid Derek’s offer has expired._

_It hasn’t._

_He feels no regret as his fangs sink into the too-cold flesh, because damn the other alphas; let a single one of them see this boy and not offer him an out._

_That would be damning_ him _._

* * *

_“Derek! Derek!” Isaac yells, bursting in through his front door, eyes glowing._

_“What’s wrong?” Derek demands._

_“My dad- I think he’s dead.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_“That’s the thing. It wasn’t me.”_

* * *

_The headline of the next morning’s paper reads,_

__

_**Local Man Shot in Head, Killed on the Spot — Suspect in Police Custody** _

_Derek’s never met Matt Daehler, never even heard of him before, but if he did, he might shake his hand._

* * *

_For Isaac’s sake, he’s sad. After experiencing the death of his own family, he would never wish it on anyone else, even if the monster deserved it._

_Life gets better, though, with time;_ _Isaac’s free of his father, and Derek has a new beta._

_They both have a little bit of family again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promised we were going to get to know the betas better, so here we go.  
> Isaac's situation couldn't work out _exactly_ like it did in canon, but here's how he and Derek got to know each other in this universe.  
>  As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts (especially whether or not you'd eventually want to hear a little more about the Matt thing)!  
> Like I said, this is just a bonus, and the regular weekend update will be up as well!


	9. Chapter 9

“Smith.”

 

Isaac doesn’t seem bothered by the lie.

 

“Do _you_ have a last name?”

 

“Newton,” Isaac says, and oh, look who thinks he’s funny. “Where are you from?”

 

“Kentucky.”

 

His obvious attempts at provocation are equals parts stupid and pointless. Isaac doesn’t seem to care one way or the other that Stiles is blatantly lying to him, which is actually a little concerning. Do they already somehow have all his information and are just testing him? Or are they really just waiting for the next, bigger guy to come along and get some real answers? Either way, he should probably stop trying to piss the guy off, but he can’t. Even if joking around is the last thing he feels like doing, sarcasm and lies are the only things that make him feel like he has some sort of control over his situation, as unrealistic as that may be.

 

“Do you know that you look kind of like one of those garden statue cherub things?”

 

“Erica already beat you to that one,” Isaac shrugs. “But good effort.”

 

Stiles figures Erica must be another beta, which makes two betas, one alpha, and one emissary whose names he knows.

 

“I don’t think we’re really getting anywhere here,” he adds, as though he’s only just noticed. “But uh, I’ve got some more serious stuff to ask.” His tone is suddenly more solemn, matching his words. “I know you’re not going to want to answer some of it, and you don’t have to tell us everything, but anything you can tell us would be really helpful in catching the guy who did this.”

 

“Guys.”

 

“What?”

 

“The guys. Plural. And girl, actually.”

 

Isaac looks genuinely shocked, which is strange. Maybe Derek hadn’t let his pack in on the full details of the transaction? Still assuming it wasn’t just an accident that Stiles ended up here in the first place.

 

“How many were there?”

 

“Enough.”

 

“Do you… do you know what they wanted?”

 

“Why don’t you ask them?”

 

Isaac actually glances around the room, as though perhaps the entire alpha pack is hiding in one of the corners and he hadn’t noticed.

 

“I told you,” he says quietly, “we really don’t have anything to do with these people. We want to catch them and throw them in jail. That’s it. Then you can go back home and be with your family.”

 

“And I told _you_ that you’re fucking awful at lying.”

 

“What can I do to make you believe us?” Isaac asks.

 

“Let me call my dad.”

 

His tone is dripping with acid, because on the list of thousand things he’s been wanting to do, hearing his dad’s voice one more time is pretty near the top.

 

“Okay.”

 

Stiles doesn’t say _okay what?_ Even children know that when a bully grabs your books in the schoolyard and holds them over your head, you don’t jump for them. If you take the bait, they laugh, and they get all the satisfaction. You wait for them to get bored, and they eventually drop it.

 

Isaac does not drop it.

 

“Stiles?" he asks, after a long silence. "You wanna call your dad?”

 

_Don’t take it don’t take it don’t take it._

 

“Stiles?”

 

_Don’t take it don’t take it don’t take it._

 

“Look, I’ll go grab a phone, and you stay right there, okay? So I’m gonna…” he trails off, jerking his thumb at the door, then getting up and walking back through it. He leaves it open behind him, and Stiles wishes desperately that he were in decent enough shape to take the stairs and somehow get out of here. As it is, he’s not, and he stares bitterly after Isaac.  

 

He takes a long time, and after a while Stiles decides he must have actually gone to talk to his alpha. He pulls his legs even closer in to himself, resting his forehead on his knees.

 

_Seven hundred thirteen mississippi, seven hundred fourteen mississippi, seven hundred fifteen mississippi-_

 

“Stiles?”

 

 _Seven_ _hundred sixteen mississippi, seven hundred seventeen mississippi-_

 

“Stiles? I uh- I got the phone.”

 

Stiles hates himself for it, but he peeks his eyes up, just a little. Isaac really _is_ holding a phone, which causes him to snap his head up a whole lot faster.

 

Isaac actually offers a small smile, which makes Stiles want to knock his stupid teeth out.

 

“Can I come down, or…?”

 

Stiles glares at him.

 

“Or I can just throw it? I have pretty good aim.”

 

* * *

 

_“You know, I have pretty good aim,” Deucalion muses. He paces back and forth across the room, idly twirling a knife between his fingers like it's a pen. “You needn’t look so worried.”_

_Stiles is chained to the wall, arms spread out to the sides and feet about a foot apart, like some sick imitation of a scarecrow._

_“You do,” Ethan says. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner, his feet propped up on a second one. Kali and Ennis are sitting on the couch—and how goddamn creepy is it that they’d set up a couch for themselves down here, like torturing Stiles is some kind of great pack bonding experience—with Aiden at their feet._

_“You would think,” Deucalion continues, “that a blind man might have a little difficulty with hand-eye coordination. I’d say I can usually handle myself pretty well though, wouldn’t you Kali?”_

_“He can,” she says pleasurably, like they’re discussing any subject other than throwing knives at Stiles. “But I’ve seen him slip up a few times.”_

_The twins' faces light up with sharp, identical grins._

_“I think that was a challenge, Duke,” Aiden laughs._

_“Definitely,” Ethan agrees._

_Before Stiles even has a chance to mentally prepare himself, the knife is whizzing towards him, and hits the wall next to his ear with a dull thunk. Had he been just a millimeter to the left, it would’ve clipped him._

_“Perfect precision,” Deucalion says proudly. “It’s all about using your other senses. I can hear where your heart is hammering, where the blood is rushing. I can smell the root of all that disgusting, pathetic fear. They say when you lose one sense, it makes the others stronger. And of course, being an alpha helps.”_

_He reaches the table again and picks up three more knives._

Thunk.

_By his shoulder._

Thunk.

_Under his armpit._

Thunk.

_Between his fingers._

_“See? Easy.”_

_“I think you’re standing too close,” Kali goads._

_If there weren't a strip of duct tape over it, Stiles would be running his mouth in some useless attempt to stop this. What even_ is _this? What kind of absolute psychopaths throw knives at people like they're part of some creepy carnival? It would almost be funny if it weren't so completely horrifying._

_“Someone’s doubting my skill today,” Deucalion tells him in a mock whisper. “But we’ll show her, won’t we, Stiles? Do remember to hold still.”_

_He will. That’s what had gotten him into this particular mess in the first place; he hadn’t listened when Ethan told him to stop fiddling with his chains, and now he’s here, strung up like a ragdoll, all because he couldn’t listen._

_“And…” Deucalion drawls. “Spread out a little more. Legs, arms, fingers. The whole nine yards.” When Stiles doesn’t immediately move to comply, he adds, “I really would do it if I were you. I’ll be aiming for the same places regardless.”_

_Stiles makes a muffled noise of defiance, but does as Deucalion asks._

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

 _Between all the spaces of his fingers,_ this _close to the webbing._

_He squeezes his eyes shut and feels hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and hates himself for giving them the gratification._

_Thunk._

_Between his legs._

Thunk. Thunk.

_Either side of the curve of his neck._

_“Very good,” Deucalion says, and Stiles’ eyes fly open as he approaches. “But it seems you’re doubting me as well. Honestly, you humans are so naïve.” He pulls down his glasses to reveal glowing red eyes, and Stiles should’ve known the bastard had actually been wolfed out the whole time, but he can’t even focus on that because Deucalion has plucked one of the knives back from the wall and is standing so close that their bodies are all but pressed together._

_Stiles presses himself as far back as he can, but the bricks are unforgiving, and Deucalion only smiles._

_The one he’d taken is a paring knife, and it looks almost delicate in his huge hands. He turns it on its side so the flat, wide part is pressed against Stiles’ cheek, and drags upward. He doesn’t break skin, and when he pulls away the only wetness on the knife isn’t blood but a single, fat teardrop, and all Stiles can do is stand there and wonder what the ever-living fuck is the_ matter _with these people. Deucalion watches in utter fascination as the drop rolls to the tip of the knife and drips out of sight. Stiles is still staring at him wondering what on earth he’s doing when, before he can even register what’s happening, the knife enters his shoulder and slashes sideways._

_“_ So _naïve,” Deucalion tuts._

_Stiles screams against the tape and his knees buckle, but he can’t even fall because there are fucking knives sticking out from every angle, and all he can do is stand there screaming until-_

 

“Stiles! Stiles, are you okay? Stiles, it’s _fine_ , I’m sorry- what did I- I’m _sorry_. ”

 

Apparently Stiles isn’t only screaming in his mind, but out loud, too.

 

“Can I- it’s just me, it’s just- it’s Isaac, can I- Derek, stay there! - can I come down and-”

 

Stiles burrows his face between his knees and body, trying to regulate his breathing. His chest is tight, so tight, and he’s taking in so much air but he can’t _breathe_.

 

“Stiles, it’s okay, I promise.” He’s vaguely aware that Isaac is still on the stairs, leaning over the banister to get closer without actually moving. “Stiles, it’s fine, don’t- don’t worry, okay? Everything is going to be okay.”

 

“Just leave him alone,” a voice from upstairs calls, and Stiles can’t even tell if he knows the speaker or not.

 

“You can’t just lock him down here every time he freaks out, that’s why he’s afraid of us! Just go back upstairs! You guys said you would stay away!”

 

“Isaac-”

 

“You _said_ -”

 

“Fine!”

 

The door closes and Isaac curses under his breath, and there’s the sound of him plopping back down onto a stair. Then he just sits there, silently.

 

It takes Stiles longer than he’d like to admit to reign himself back in. When his heart stops tripping over itself and he can finally breathe, and the bile rising in his throat has subsided, he looks over at Isaac. He can feel himself shaking still, but ignores it in an attempt to at least look like he has some of his dignity remaining. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac murmurs.

 

“For what?” Stiles asks, and the voice that was meant to be harsh sounds broken, even to himself. 

 

“Whatever that was. Whatever I did or said that- I didn’t mean to do that.”

 

“Obviously,” he bites out, and Isaac cringes. As much as he’d like to blame the guy, there’s no way he could’ve known that would trigger Stiles; Stiles hadn’t even known. 

 

“Do you-” Isaac starts, then frowns.

 

Stiles tries to finish the sentence in his head. _Do you think anyone cares if you scream? Do you think anyone’s going to pity you for this? Do you know how pathetic you are?_ No, no, and yes.

 

“Do you wanna talk about it, or…” he trails off again, biting his lip.

 

Stiles narrows his eyes. 

 

“Right, of course not, just- some people like to. It’s fine. You’re okay. You'll be okay. Is there anything I can do?”

 

Isaac looks so genuinely concerned in a way the alphas never had that it’s almost scary. He looks sort of like Scott does when he’s upset, and if his brain doesn’t stop making Isaac/Scott comparisons he’s going to eviscerate himself. He may have the big puppy dog eyes and the same caring voice, but he is _not_ Scott. It doesn’t matter though, because something in his mind sees him that way and isn’t letting go.

 

Maybe that’s how he ends up asking, “Can I have the phone?”

 

Isaac’s face twists in confusion, and he has to actually look down at his hand and see the phone he’s still holding before he seems to remember. Stiles is expecting him to say no, and clearly there’s some type of trap somewhere in this situation, but he’s already having about as shitty a day as he can, so he might as well give this a shot too.

 

Isaac frowns again, looking like he’s thinking. “Should I…”

 

Stiles realizes he may actually be trying to figure out what had set him off the first time. Stiles’ panic attacks are no fun for anyone, werewolves included. Even the alphas hadn’t liked when he went into a blind panic; they wanted him to be fully conscious of every second of horror he went through.

 

“Do you want me to bring it to you?” he asks carefully. “Or I can leave it on the bottom stair, if you want?”

 

Stiles nods and Isaac looks a little relieved, slowly walking to the bottom step and putting down the phone, then going all the way to the top.

 

Stiles takes his time standing, and his legs almost give out twice before he’s all the way up. He pointedly keeps his eyes on the ground as he approaches, then slowly bends to pick the phone up. Isaac doesn’t say anything, nor does he move to take it back.

 

Stiles tries not to put too much thought into it as he shuffles back to his corner and slides down the wall. He stares at the phone, mulling over all the possible things he could do. Every option seems to be something that would get his throat ripped out.

 

He could call the cops.

 

Just _9-1-1, on_.

 

But Isaac would have the phone away from him in seconds, assuring the operator that it’s a false alarm, that everything’s okay, that the alpha says not to worry about it.

 

He could call his dad. He could call Scott. He could call Melissa.

 

But he can’t.

 

Not because Isaac’s probably just going to rip it away; that’s what he’s already expecting to happen. But what if he does let him? What if he’s just trying to screw with him, let him hear his dad’s voice and know that he’ll never be able to see him again? Stiles doesn’t know if he could handle that. And what if it’s worse? What if his dad has spent all this time drowning himself in the bottom of a liquor bottle? What if he’s dead? What if Scott’s dead? Or Melissa? Those idiots would definitely have tried to go after him, and he can’t even think about that possibility right now because he’s already freaked out and he can feel his heart starting to race again. There’s reasons besides that, too, though. Phone numbers are traceable, and the last thing he needs is these people knowing where anyone back home lives. But he has a _phone_. How can he waste this opportunity?

 

Fingers shaking, he enters the numbers.

 

_1-347-_

 

He pauses, glancing up at a seemingly impassive Isaac.

 

_555- 4124_

 

It rings once, twice. Isaac is clearly listening from his place upstairs. Three times.

 

_“Hello?”_

_“H-hey. Is Harley there?”_

_“She’s out, hun. You okay?”_

 

 _"I-"_   he realizes his voice is shaking, badly. _"Y-yeah, I'm good."_

 

_"Alright. Who should I say called?"_

_“Uh… nobody. I’ll uh, I'll just try back later. Bye.”_

 

He clicks the phone off, staring at it as he pulls it from his ear. 

 

It worked. They had given him a working phone and hadn’t taken it away and he could’ve called _anyone,_ and he had ended up talking to the mother of his lab partner from sophomore year. Holy _shit_.

 

Isaac doesn’t immediately seize the phone to track the number, or demand to know who he was talking to or why. He just stares at him curiously, and says, “I thought you were calling your dad.”

 

He can't explain. What, _I needed to try a safe number because I thought you were going to come snap the phone in half or trace it or just give me a dead line or something_? That would go over well.

 

He doesn't understand. It can’t be that these people are telling him the truth. This is all some elaborate trick and they’re messing with him or something because this doesn’t make any _sense_. The Hales are _evil_. But why is Isaac acting like this? Why are any of them acting like this? His head hurts and he's still trembling and gripping the phone so hard his knuckles are turning white, and Isaac's still staring at him with a calm level of concern on his face, and he just needs to know what the hell is up with these people, because the only thing worse than knowing that someone's going to hurt you is _not_ knowing, and-

 

“Isaac?”

 

Stiles recognizes the voice as the door opens as that of Deaton.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can I come down? I have someone here who wants to talk to Stiles.”

 

“I really don’t think now is a good time.”

 

“Isaac, it’s someone who _needs_ to talk to him. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this chapter was more angsty. Thoughts? 
> 
> [Kinda-sorta spoilers]  
> And I know it's been a while since Stiles and Derek have interacted, and I'm still going to have things to happen at a healthy pace, but for anyone who's waiting for them to talk again, Stiles' misconceptions about the Hales are going to start clearing up really soon. That by _no means_ means the angst or healing is anywhere close to done, but it does mean he'll be interacting with the pack more, however warily. Can't keep him in that basement forever!


	10. Chapter 10

Derek doesn’t know how everything in his life can be this insanely complicated. First Paige, then Kate, then Peter and Laura, then the betas, then Peter _again_ , then Cora, and now Stiles. He must’ve done something pretty awful in a past life for this to be his lot.

 

Isaac had been downstairs with Stiles for a while, then come up, grabbed a phone, informed Derek that Stiles is under the impression that he’s being _held hostage_ , demanded Derek stay upstairs, and refused to answer any more questions before he went back down. Then Stiles had started screaming bloody murder and Isaac had _still_ kept him away, insisting that he had it under control.

 

Derek had thought that was enough excitement for one day. Which means, naturally, that Deaton had shown up five minutes later.

* * *

_Whispered words. Arguments. Anger. Harsh voices. Silence. Muted tones. The alpha’s voice. A woman. More whispering. Whispering, whispering, whispering. Metal against stone. A deep sigh. Whispering, fervent now. Something about death. Shushing. Whispering.  New voices. Whispering. The stairs. A soft thud. His name._

“-upstairs, okay?” Isaac says. “I’ll be right outside.”

 

_The door._

 

Stiles pulls his hands from his ears, his attempt to block out the argument he had no say in proving to be in vain.

 

There’s a woman sitting against the back wall now, one leg crossed over the other in a metal folding chair. Her clothes are sophisticated, her dark hair long and sleek, and she looks like she should be working a desk job, not sitting around with a hostage— a maybe-hostage. He’s still trying to work this out.

 

They sit there for a long time, neither saying anything. It’s long enough for Stiles to get a better hold over himself, and he’s relieved about not having to speak till he’s ready.

 

“Need something?” he finally asks, raising a brow.

 

“Hello, Stiles,” she says, voice soothing but with an undertone of—what? Knowledge? Power? “Just to talk.”

 

“Don’t tell me,” Stiles deadpans. “You’re the muscle behind all this, right?”

 

The woman smiles, and it’s not necessarily unpleasant.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Equivocation. A true villainous classic. You know, I’d venture to say that I’m pretty used to this whole being kidnapped thing by now. No one wants to talk to you unless talking equals beating the crap out of. So what do you want?”

 

“That’s a little quick to judge, isn’t it?” she asks. “A villain before we even get to know each other?”

 

“Then it’s nice to meet you,” Stiles says, matching her soothing tone. “I’m Stiles, resident hostage of the Hale pack.”

 

She hums, ignoring his sardonicism. “There’s more to you though, isn’t there, Stiles? Stiles Stilinski, son of a sheriff, best friend of Scott McCall?”

 

His chest tightens and his bloods runs cold.

 

_She knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she’ll tell them she knows she knows she knows._

 

“Sorry? I don’t know a Scott. And my pop’s an accountant. Mom’s a teacher. You are?”

 

She doesn’t argue or answer his question, only gives him a patronizing smile.  

 

“You need to understand something about the Hales, Stiles. They’re not trying to hurt you.”

 

“You know, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately for a guy with bruises covering half his body.”

 

“Are any of them from Derek’s pack?”

 

“Funnily enough, I don’t quite remember signing up for a therapy session.”

 

She smiles again, and it looks more real this time, though Stiles doesn’t see why.

 

“Sometimes talking can help. Have you tried it?”

 

“The whole being surrounded by pathological liars situation doesn’t give much opportunity.”

 

“I see what Deucalion was saying. You can be a bit sarcastic, hmm?”

 

Stiles freezes, eyes snapping to hers.

 

“He always said you were intelligent, too.” She looks satisfied that she’s gotten his attention. “I don’t have much time, so I need you to listen to me. You’re smart enough to tell if I’m lying, no?”

 

Stiles hates her, this strange woman who thinks she can just walk into his life, throw around his and Scott’s names, Deucalion’s name, like it’s nothing.

 

“Who. The fuck. Are you?” he grits out.

 

“Marin Morrell. Alan Deaton's sister. Emissary to the alpha pack.”

 

Stiles doesn’t freak out. Or rather, he doesn’t freak out more. Maybe there’s some sort of universal law about the number of panic attacks you can have consecutively.

 

Instead, he laughs. Maybe that should be even more concerning, because that’s the last thing on the planet he should be doing. It sounds manic and hysterical, but fuck it; he _is_ manic and hysterical, and what even is his life?

 

“Something amusing?” Morrell asks.

 

“Just that my trip to hell seems to have come full circle. No biggie. So is that what it is then? Deucalion wants me back for round two? Or has my incessant screaming been less than satisfying for Derek, and they’re trying to work out if there was a no takesies-backsies clause in their agreement?”

 

“Not quite.”

 

Stiles just stares at her, waiting for her to continue.

 

“Stiles, I need you to listen. Can you do that?”

 

“Do you think I’m five years old?” he sneers, hopefully looking more confident than he feels.

 

“I think you’re afraid.” Before he can respond, she goes on. “Not just afraid for yourself. I know you’re afraid for yourself. But you’re a little resigned, too.” It’s not a question, and Stiles hates that she seems to know everything about him. “You’re used to this, and it’s still scary, but you’re not your own biggest concern.”

 

“Oh, plea-”

 

“I don’t have a lot of time,” she reminds him. “You could’ve been back home weeks ago if you were only concerned about yourself. But then it wouldn’t be home anymore, would it? Not without Scott.”

 

She has no right to talk about Scott. None of these people do.

 

“A true alpha,” she muses. “Impressive. Almost as impressive as keeping it a secret.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, in a way even Ennis might've appreciated.

 

“You _are_ here by accident, Stiles,” Morrell says, switching topics. Or tactics, maybe. “But it’s also no accident at all. Tell me—how did you escape?”

 

“Why the hell would I tell you?”

 

She looks pleased, like being shot down is the exact response she was looking for.

 

“Let me paint you a picture, then. You’re sitting in the back of a transport van. It’s old, the back door lock is broken, but it doesn’t matter—there’s a padlock on it that no human hands are getting past. It doesn’t make a difference if they could, anyway, because you’re sitting in a cage. Your hands and feet are bound. There’s a gag in your mouth. You feel like an animal and you’re angry and desperate. The thing is, you’re not an animal. You’re smart. You try everything, probably; some parts I had to leave to the imagination. But finally, you see it. There’s a sliver of metal in the back right corner of the van.”

 

Stiles swallows hard. _How could she possibly…?_

 

“It takes some maneuvering, but your fingers are just long enough to reach through the bars and grab it. Who knows what you did first? Put it between your knees, maybe, and sawed the ropes off your wrists. Then your feet. You’d probably already determined the soundproof separation wall between you and the drivers. It’s old and poorly done, just like the rest of the van. You can hear them if they’re all talking at once, and loudly. They can probably hear you, but only if they’re trying to. You seem like you were probably mischievous when you were younger, no? With the right tool, picking a lock is no problem. The van door isn’t so easy. So you do the smart thing and wait for an opportunity. How does that opportunity come, Stiles?”

 

She’s narrating the whole event—the event she wasn’t there for, that she couldn’t _possibly_ know about—like it’s a nature documentary, and it’s all he can do to keep breathing while she answers her own question.

 

“A phone call. They pull over to the side of the road, and they’re arguing, shouting. Someone just delivered bad news. No one will hear if you start working at the padlock and slip away. If you take the sliced ropes with you, no one will know how you did it. I don’t know how long it took, but I stayed on the phone with Kali for twenty minutes. Looks like it was enough.”

 

_Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit._

 

Stiles’ brain feels like it’s trying to reboot itself. It makes sense; a lot of it. It also doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.

 

He tries to say something but can’t get any words out. Finally, finally he manages, “Why would you do that?”

 

He’s heard her name before, heard the complete trust the alphas seem to have whenever Morrell has told them this, or Morrell has told them that.

 

“I think you were with them long enough, don’t you?”

 

“Why would you care?” he demands, less grateful than suspicious. “You’re their emissary.”

 

“This is a lot bigger than you, Stiles. You were important because they thought if they twisted it right, they could get Scott on their side.”

 

“What, so he could join their merry band of psychopaths? Have they _met_   Scott?”

 

“Not meeting Scott would be part of their problem,” she says, as though it was a real question. “Everyone who wants power starts small. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

 

“And their plan was to use me to get my complete goofball, puppy of a best friend on their side because…?”

 

“Do you understand how willing people would be to follow a true alpha? Think about it.” Apparently Stiles is meant to do his thinking on his own time, because she continues, “But you’re right. I didn’t save you out of the goodness of my heart.”

 

“Good to know,” he scoffs.

 

Morrell leans in, looking him right in the eyes. “Do you know why you’re going to believe me here? It’s because I’m going to be honest with you. I saved you because it was for the greater good. I knew you were there for two months. I knew they were planning to take you. Do you know why I didn’t stop it?”

 

Stiles forces himself to take a few deep breaths. Someone, a fellow human, _knew_ that he was going to be taken, _knew_ he was being tortured, and hadn’t done anything to prevent it.

 

“You were a distraction. They’re convinced you’re they key to this puzzle, Stiles. As long as they had you, they weren’t going to go for Scott. They wanted information first, and I knew you weren’t going to give it up. And you didn’t.”

 

She looks proud of him, or of herself, maybe, and he's never hated someone so much so fast. She's sitting here acting like she did him and Scott some big favor, when it clearly wasn't for either of them.

 

“You let them torture me to buy yourself time?” he finally asks. His voice is quiet. Hollow. Dangerous. “Do you have any idea what they were doing to me? Do you even have the slightest fucking clue?” He gets louder as he works himself up. “Do you know what your precious little alphas did for fun? You can say it was for Scott all you want—and shit, a lot of it _was_ for information on Scott, I know it was—but if you think they didn’t enjoy every second of-” He pauses, takes a deep breath. His voice is soft again, but shaking with fury. “If you think they didn’t have the time of their lives threatening and beating and _burning_ and _carving_ and-” He stops. Swallows. "Then you’re fucking lying to yourself. They put me through _hell,_ and you sat back and let them.”

 

Her expression remains unreadable, unsympathetic, and having to look at her is starting to make his skin crawl.

 

“I’m being honest with you,” she says again. “You have no idea how big their plans are. My pack trusts me, and I need to hold onto that trust for as long as possible. And do you know how much they trust me, Stiles?”

 

He doesn’t even attempt to dignify her with a response, and she doesn’t seem to care one way or the other.

 

“Enough that when I told them how ruthless the Hale alpha was, they believed me. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to scare them into handing you over to Derek and going about things a different way, but it seems it was enough for them to scare _you_. I need you to think logically, and to trust me. Deucalion is a bad person. Maybe you think I’m a bad person. But Derek and his pack are not.”

 

Stiles’ head spins. It does make sense. If part of Morrell’s screwed up plan involved letting Stiles go—and it has to, because she _couldn’t_ have known how he escaped unless it was her doing—and she wanted to make things somewhat right, then it makes sense that she would do it on the territory of the pack her brother works for.

 

She’s right that her brutal honesty makes everything else she says seem believable. Why would she admit to knowing what was happening to him and how she let Stiles go only to lie about wanting to leave him on the Hale territory? It makes sense in the most awful way.

 

“What about my dad?” he demands. “And Scott and his mom? They’re just going to go after them now.”

 

“They won’t,” she says, as if she could possibly guarantee that. “The pack has a plan, and I have one to counteract it. I’m not telling you not to worry—you should. But it would make things easier for everyone, especially yourself, if you’d direct your concern toward the right people.”

 

She stands, smooths out her pantsuit.

 

“No one here is trying to hurt you, Stiles,” she says as she climbs the stairs, and somehow it feels like a parting shot.

 

The door opens and closes and he’s alone again.

 

His blood boils and he's furious with her for acting like there’s nothing wrong with a plan where Stiles gets tortured for two months.

 

Furious because she could’ve somehow let him in on this earlier.

 

Furious because he believes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we happy now? Cuz that cliffhanger last chapter really killed you guys;) Well, maybe not _happy_ , but... we know who came to see Stiles, so that's good! And I'm not even torturing you with a cliffhanger today. ~~A million are things hanging in the air, but no actual cliffhanger!~~
> 
> I know this chapter got pretty complex, and right from the beginning I dumped a lotta information on you, so if you have any questions or anything feel free to ask! Of course I'm gonna explain more next chapter/as things progress, but if you're wondering if specific things are going to be mentioned/how something worked/whatever, lemme know! 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!
> 
> Oh and uh, Morrell; definitely colder here than in canon, but I'll let you decide if she's a bad person or not! Maybe we've gotta see more of her to make a fair judgement.


	11. Chapter 11

They leave him alone for a long time.

 

* * *

 

“Marin thinks Stiles should be willing to talk to you now,” Deaton says.

 

“Why?” Derek asks, directing the question at Morrell herself.

 

“I had some important information to give him. I would allow him some time to put things in perspective before you go down there. It was a heavy load to dump on anyone. I really do have to go, Alan,” she adds. Derek wants to keep her here, ask her a million questions about who Stiles is and what happened to him and why, but he doubts she would tell him. She gives off a strangely strong presence, even in front of an alpha, and it’s probably best to let Stiles tell him in his own time, anyway.

 

He watches as she gives Deaton’s arm a quick squeeze and steps outside, then gets into a small car and pulls out. Something feels strange, wrong, almost. Something in him just being overprotective again, probably. Or maybe his alpha side simply doesn’t like so many strange people being on his property lately. He shakes it off as that being it.

 

“I’ll be outside if you need me,” Deaton says. He goes out to sit on the porch, probably the most pack-oriented activity he ever engages in.

 

Derek sighs, shutting the door behind him. Now would probably be a good time for a pack meeting.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it’s an hour. Maybe it’s five.

 

Stiles really doesn’t know.

 

* * *

 

A pack meeting doesn’t work out so well. Boyd and Erica have had date plans for two weeks, and Cora was supposed to hang out with a few friends. They’d all offered to stay home, insisted really, but Derek sent them out anyway. They still need a hint of normalcy in their lives, even with everything going on.

 

The plan changed to just meeting with Isaac, which, since he has the most information, seemed good enough. That is, until Peter showed up.

 

“Hello Derek. Isaac,” he says cheerily, sitting in one of the armchairs. He puts his feet up and sets a mug of coffee on the side table, and oh joy, look who’s going to be staying for a while.

 

“Peter,” Derek greets, and Isaac doesn’t do anything except shoot Derek a questioning glance.

 

It’s funny, almost. Peter really doesn't do much, but he’s still enough to make the betas wary sometimes, and he clearly enjoys every second of it.

 

“Go on,” he says, waving a hand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

 

Isaac rolls his eyes and continues his explanation, pointedly only looking at Derek.

 

“So yeah. He was completely convinced we were holding him hostage here. I offered to let him call his dad, but something I said or did must have triggered him, because then he started flipping out. When he calmed down he was still pretty freaked, but he took the phone when I left it at the base of the stairs. He didn’t call his dad though, it was just someone named Harley, and they didn't answer the phone, someone else did. He didn't leave his name or a message. I think he actually thought we were testing him or something.”

 

Derek grimaces, trying not to think about who could have possibly made him this way.

 

“Then he started looking pretty freaked out again, and then Deaton showed up.”

 

“Does he still have the phone?” Derek asks. 

 

“What?”

 

“You gave him the phone and then Deaton came, and I didn’t see you go get it back. So Stiles still has it?”

 

“Oh,” Isaac says, frowning. “Yeah, I guess I must’ve just left it down there.”

 

“That could be good, actually. Maybe he’ll call someone and they can come work this out.”

 

“Don’t you want to be able to hear what he’s saying?” Peter asks. So much for not interrupting. “I mean personally, if I had a scared, injured man in my basement for reasons unknown—which, coincidentally, I do—I would think it somewhat important to hear who he’s trying to contact and why.”

 

“His dad,” Isaac says flatly. “He just wants to talk to his dad.”

 

“Well obviously he would tell _us_ that,” Peter says. “No self-respecting gang leader is going to tell you he’s calling his friends to come pick him up. Honestly, Derek. You’d think one would consider all the possibilities before inviting a stranger into their home and assuming they’re a good person. Lessons learned and all that.”

 

Derek should really be applauded for the self-control it takes not to just get up and punch Peter in the face for the thinly-veiled Kate jab.

 

Before he can say anything, Isaac scoffs. “He looks like a gang leader to you?”

 

“I haven’t seen him,” Peter shrugs.

 

“Oh my god. Have you _heard_ him? Screaming and panicking and puking? He doesn’t exactly set off warning signs as a person of interest.”

 

“They rarely do.”

 

“Since when are there _gangs_ in Beacon Hills?”

 

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re deliberately missing the point, or if you’re actually that stupid.”

 

 “ _Okay_ ,” Derek cuts in. Peter can argue like a teenager any day of the week, and he’s really not in the mood. “We’ll figure something out. Have him fingerprinted or something, at some point. For now we just want to get him upstairs.”

 

“Good,” Peter says, starting to stand. “But that last part is a little beyond my field of expertise. Or caring. I’ll see you boys later, if that's all." 

 

“We could actually use a hand,” Derek sighs.

 

Peter looks pleased as he sits back down.

 

* * *

 

It makes so much sense, but-

 

_9-_

 

His hands shake.

 

_1-_

 

It makes _sense_.

 

_1_

 

* * *

 

“Stiles told Isaac a little about who kidnapped him. It was at least two men and one woman, and we’re assuming all of them were werewolves. Do you know any packs with violent tendencies?”

 

Loathe as Derek is to admit it, Peter could actually be pretty useful here. He’d been very sociable, very _likable_ , before the fire, and he’d been friends with packs all over the place. Even if he never knew them personally, he always used to have gossip.

 

“Three werewolves with violent tendencies isn’t much to go on.”

 

“Well he’s not exactly an open book,” Isaac says.

 

Peter ignores him, instead putting on an expression of deep thought that has to be his idea of a joke.

 

“He’s particularly afraid of you?” he finally asks, turning to Derek.

 

Derek frowns. Nods.

 

“Well maybe he has a good reason. Did you consider that an alpha might’ve been involved?”

 

Derek and Isaac shoot him matching incredulous looks.

 

“Oh, please,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t think alphas can be corrupt?”

 

“And still run a territory? Someone would notice,” Derek says.

 

“Who says they have to run a territory?”

 

“There are no other alphas in Beacon Hills. Or County.”

 

“Who says he’s from here? In fact, if he were from here, his family would’ve heard and been on their way to pick him up already.”

 

“Unless he’s part of a gang,” Isaac puts in, just to see the look on Peter’s face.

 

“I’m just saying,” Peter says, with a long-suffering sigh, “that you should consider all the possibilities.”

 

“Fine,” Derek says. “As soon as you find a rogue, psychotic alpha, let me know.”

 

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but stops, tilting his head to one side.

 

“Someone’s coming.”

 

Derek stops to listen and hears it too. There’s a car fast-approaching, making a different noise over the gravel than Morrell’s had. It doesn’t sound like his Camaro, or the car Cora’s friends had picked her up in either. After another second he recognizes it as a police cruiser.

 

He gets up to look out the window, and watches as the car pulls into view. Deputy Graeme steps out, and waves pleasantly to Deaton as Derek opens the door.

 

“Thought you were down with the sheriff seeing about those robberies,” Derek says, stepping back to allow her inside.

 

She waves a hand at her foot, showing off the sandal and cast he hadn’t noticed before.

 

“Three broken toes,” she says. “Told me to stay behind, so it’s just me and a few of the older guys at the station. It’s about as fun as it sounds.”

 

“Sorry to hear that.”

 

She nods, and he closes the door behind her.

 

“So we got a call,” she says. “The sheriff told me a little bit about the guy you’re keeping here. Is it safe to assume it was him who called us just now?”

 

Derek’s actually kind of surprised; he hadn’t even really thought about Stiles trying to call the police, as logical as it now seems.

 

“What’d he say?”

 

“Asked me to come by with the sirens off. Said it wasn’t an emergency but he needed a police officer, and to look in the basement even if they tell me I can’t. You gonna tell me I can’t?”

 

Derek shakes his head, pointing out the door, and she smiles. She doesn’t seem in a terrible rush—which makes sense, since she used to be a friend of his mother, and probably doesn’t think he would do anything too terribly threatening—but he finds himself strangely wishing she would hurry up. She _should_ take this more seriously and she _should_ be concerned and she _should_ be doing what she can, as fast as she can.

 

* * *

 

The door opens at the top of the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Derek can’t bring himself to do anything other than stand there and listen. It’s not eavesdropping, per say, because Deputy Graeme knows he’s there, and Stiles probably assumes it, but he still feels like he’s majorly intruding.

 

“Human or werewolf?” is Stiles’ immediate question when the deputy reaches the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Human,” she says, and Derek can picture her flashing the badge that says so. “I’m Deputy Graeme, with the Beacon Hills Police Department. You called, right?”

 

Stiles just- snaps.

 

Suddenly he’s sobbing and spluttering out _oh my god_ s and _holy shit_ s and _thank you_ s like there’s no tomorrow, and he smells desperate and disbelieving and excited and scared and so, so happy, all at the same time.

 

“Why don’t you let me help you upstairs?”

 

Stiles makes another noise, such a strange cross between brokenness and relief that Derek isn’t sure there’s a word for it.

 

There’s the sound of him standing up, and Derek backs off from the door, retreating back to the living room to listen.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you. _Thank you so much_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was a bit slower and shorter, but I have a _lot_ of work this weekend, so hopefully this came out alright!
> 
> But hey, we're finally seeing more Derek again, and look who's coming upstairs! Obviously we'll get his pov/opinion on it all next week. 
> 
> Lemme know what you thought:)


	12. Chapter 12

He’s leaving the basement. That is, he’s leaving the basement, sans chains and a blindfold. He’s not kidnapped and he’s away from the alphas and he can see his dad again and he can see Scott again and he can see Melissa again and he can see outside again and – and god. God, he’s crying and breathing too hard and he should probably be embarrassed but he really, really couldn’t care less.

 

It’s slow going, because for whatever reason the deputy they sent seems to have a broken foot, and Stiles’ entire body probably qualifies as broken, but it doesn’t even matter because they’re _leaving_.

 

She keeps apologizing for their speed and gently shushing him and patting his shoulder, and he doesn’t even know her name but this is the nicest anyone’s been to him in a long time. So if all this makes him pathetic? Then he’s pathetic.

 

When they make it to the top of the stairs and cross the threshold, the deputy switches their position to support his left side with an arm wrapped around his shoulders and shuts the door behind them. It’s really not necessary, but it feels good to hear the thud and know that he’s on the other side. Oh god, someone please remind him when he got this corny. If Jackson were here—and the circumstances were a little different—he’d probably laugh. And, if Jackson were here, Stiles would probably hug the douche. Now isn’t _that_ a scary thought.

 

They’re in a foyer-like area now, facing a front door with a living room to the right. The deputy starts that way, but Stiles can’t help but resist.

 

“You okay, honey?”

 

There are three people in the living room, and all of them are staring at him. He recognizes Isaac and Derek, but there’s a third man he’s never seen before. _Then_ the embarrassment starts to set in. He’s been accusing these people of being ruthless kidnappers for days, and yet here they are, watching him with nothing but sympathy. Except the third guy; Stiles isn’t quite sure what the look he’s wearing is about. It seems more curious than anything. Still, the awkwardness of the situation isn’t the part that’s holding him back. After all, Stiles is the king of awkward.

 

He holds onto the deputy with one arm, and uses the other to wipe at his face. He directs his words at her—Deputy Graeme, he notes from her badge—but is well aware that the others can hear him.

 

“They’re-” he starts, but stops to take a deep breath. He needs his stupid voice to stop shaking. He’s already about to make himself sound pathetic, so he doesn’t need the quivering voice to top it off. “They’re werewolves.”

 

She looks confused for a second and god Stiles hates himself, he’s just weak and pathetic and sad.

 

“You know they’re not the ones who took you, right? They just want to protect you,” she says softly.

 

God, yes, he knows. Now he does. That’s why he’s such an idiot. He knows they meant what they said before and that this Derek guy is apparently trusted enough to run a territory and that the rest of them are just regular old betas, but they’re still _werewolves_. Werewolves with glowing eyes and fangs and hair that grows from their faces, and his stupid, _stupid_ brain associates all that with _pain_ and _danger_ and _threat_ and _run_. He _knows_ how wrong that is, he _knows_ that he’s safe now, and he _knows_ these people aren’t going to hurt him, _can’t_ hurt him in front of a cop with wolfsbane bullets even if they wanted to, but his mind doesn’t care. He thinks of Scott, with his melt-your-heart smile and his alpha-red eyes, and can’t help but shudder. Then he hates himself more, because he loves Scott, and he should be ridiculously grateful to these people, and instead here he is being incredibly, unfairly prejudiced, and he just can’t help it.

 

“We can stay over here,” Derek offers.

 

Stiles notices that he’s standing further away than the others, and has to wonder if that’s on purpose.

 

“He can’t stand forever,” Isaac points out. “Here, how about…”

 

He puts up his hands in a gesture of innocence as he approaches, and pulls an armchair to the side of the room closest to where Stiles is standing. Derek takes the hint and goes for the couch, looking pointedly at the other man till he helps him move it to the farthest wall. Then the three of them sit on the couch, Isaac and the stranger on either end, with their alpha in the middle.

 

“Is that better?” Isaac asks.

 

Stiles forces himself to nod, and Deputy Graeme smiles at him, and starts helping him over there.

 

Everyone politely ignores the way he’s trembling as they approach, but finally he’s situated in the chair, and Graeme sits on the windowsill next to him.

 

Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, a defense mechanism he’s not quite ready to drop. It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to steel his nerves enough to look up at the werewolves. The three werewolves. In a row. With an alpha in the middle.

 

No one says anything for a long time.

 

Finally, finally, Deputy Graeme asks, “Would you like me to go, Alpha Hale?”

 

Stiles can feel himself tense, and maybe the alpha notices too, because he waves a hand at her.

 

“If you’re not too busy down at the station, I think it’d be good for Stiles to have another human here for a while.”

 

Derek looks to Stiles for confirmation, and he realizes he’s actually going to have to start talking to these people.

 

“Uh- yeah. If you don’t mind,” he says, then goes back to chewing on his thumbnail.

 

“Not a problem,” she says. “Not really in the mood to sit around doing paperwork, anyway.” She gives Stiles a playful wink that makes him feel like a child, but that he does his best to return with a smile.

 

“Thank you,” Derek says. He seems very serious, not just about that but about everything, and Stiles wonders if he’s always like this or if it’s for the officer’s benefit. Or Stiles’ own.

 

He turns to Stiles next, and god, they’re starting. He suddenly feels a rush of empathy for all the people his father has interrogated in his life, then firmly reminds himself that this is not an interrogation. They probably just want to know some basic facts. You know, who kidnapped you, why would they do that, are you capable of holding this conversation without screaming? The usual.

 

“I’m Derek,” the alpha says, like he hasn’t introduced himself before. Actually, most of their interactions have been Derek introducing himself, then Stiles passing out or throwing up. Huh. That means this one is going better than the others already. Success. “This is Isaac,” he says, jerking a thumb at Isaac, who waves. “And that’s Peter. My other three betas are out right now, but they should be home soon.” 

 

Oh, joy, more werewolves. Stiles can hardly wait. 

 

* * *

 

“It’s good to really meet you, Stiles,” Isaac says.

 

“It’s good to know you’re not crazy. Apparently it’s only me.”

 

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. Clearly it’s Stiles' attempt at a joke, though he hadn’t really struck Derek as the joking type. Then again, no one seems like the joking type when they think you’re about to torture them. When Isaac swoops in, Derek’s infinitely glad he didn’t leave with the others.

 

“You say that till you get to know Erica.”

 

His smile is disarming, and Stiles actually looks a little more comfortable. Thank god for Isaac.

 

“So,” Derek says, clearing his throat. Stiles automatically stiffens, then flushes, giving Derek a firm nod that seems to say _go on_.

 

Derek really doesn’t know _how_ to go on, though. Considering all the time they spent trying to get Stiles out of the basement, he really hadn’t spent much on what they would do once he actually came out. He knows the police station doesn’t want to get involved, but thinks they should probably start their own investigation with the same kind of questions. Only a few for now, and then they should let him have a break. He figures the best start is to probably relay all that to Stiles.

 

“We told you some basic information in the note, but it’s probably a good idea to tell you all that again in person,” he starts.

 

“About that,” Stiles says, biting his lip. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” Then he glares down at his own chest, like it’s its fault that they can hear the lie—which really, was obvious anyway—and adds, “Well, I did, but to be fair, I thought you wanted to kill me.”

 

Now that he's stopped crying, he seems to switch back and forth between confident bluntness and agitated jumpiness. He seems much more comfortable when he’s joking around though, and Derek thinks that he’s probably normally a pretty easy-going guy.

 

“Derek gives off that impression a lot,” Isaac says amiably. Okay, so thank god for Isaac _sometimes_.

 

Derek decides stepping on eggshells too much might just make Stiles feel uncomfortable, so he allows himself to roll his eyes at Isaac, who only grins.

 

“Anyway,” Derek continues. “It’s fine, Stiles.” He wants to add a _we didn’t mean to scare you, we’re sorry_ , but isn’t sure how well it would be received. Looking back on it, it’s kind of hard to explain how locking him in a basement seemed like a good plan. It was the _best_ plan, but not a very good one. “But just to go over some of the things we told you... I have three more betas, my sister Cora, and two bittens, Boyd and Erica. They all live here, so you’ll probably be seeing a lot of them soon.”

 

Stiles frowns a little harder, so Derek is quick to go on.

 

“Don’t worry about them though, I’ll make sure they all give you your space.”

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, nodding. His expression is blank but Derek can smell the relief that pools back into his scent.

 

After a momentary lull in conversation, Isaac suggests, “Tell him about the sheriff.”

 

“Right. The sheriff here, Sheriff Haigh, discussed things with me, and we decided it’s better for you to stay here with us.” Derek can practically see the cogs spinning in Stiles’ head as he seems to piece things together. “Now that you’re here the decision can be up to you, but unfortunately,” he pauses, trying to gauge how Stiles will take the news, "you’re going to have to stay here, or with one of our other options till we find out who did this. You’re not…” he stops again, trying and failing to find a more delicate way to put it. Hopefully Stiles is familiar enough with legal procedures to believe him. “You’re not being held hostage here, or anything like that. It’s just a matter of safety. If whoever did this comes back, we don’t want you getting hurt, and we need some information from you to help us catch them. Is that okay?”

 

It doesn’t really matter if it’s okay, because they can’t just release the kidnapping victim without some sort of investigation, but they can work things out until Stiles is alright with the arrangement.

 

Surprisingly, Stiles just nods and says, “I have to get in touch with my dad though.”

 

“Do you live with him?”

 

He nods again.

 

“He can come down too then,” Derek offers. That would be good. Stiles would definitely feel more comfortable if his father were here.

 

“Yeah,” Isaac chimes in. “More than enough room for you guys.”

 

Stiles’ face twists into something bitter, but it’s gone within a second. His heartbeat starts tripping all over itself though, clearly indicating he’s about to lie.

 

Before he can, Derek cuts back in, “But you can talk to your dad first, see how you guys want to work it all out.” Stiles visibly relaxes, so Derek gets back to his talk about the sheriff. “If you don’t want to stay here, there’s a hunter family on the outskirts that might take you, but I would have to talk to them first.”

 

Derek keeps his voice carefully malice-free when talking about the Argents, no matter how much he dislikes them. They might not be on the best terms, but they have nothing against humans, and Chris was proven innocent in connection with the fire. Derek is vaguely aware he has a daughter now around Stiles’ age, but their home probably isn’t a terribly welcoming environment. He’s never met the daughter, but Chris can be a pretty harsh presence at times, especially for someone like Stiles.

 

“Call me biased," Peter says, speaking up for the first time. "But I would choose us."

 

Stiles stares at him but he doesn’t elaborate, and Derek would really rather not explain all about how a member of that family happened to murder theirs.

 

“They’re fine,” Isaac says, for the benefit of the very confused-looking Stiles. “But other members of that family aren’t the kind of people you would want to be around. You’d probably be safer here anyway. Call _me_ biased, but personally I trust claws against claws better than a human with some wolfsbane.”

 

“I’d rather stay here, if it’s okay,” Stiles says slowly. Derek’s surprised considering his reactions thus far, but the surprise changes to even more anger at his captors when Stiles adds, “Kinda learned lately that humans don’t stand such a great chance against the claws.” It sounds like he’s trying for another joke but his voice is too hollow, and Derek’s never heard anything less funny.

 

Derek forces himself to swallow past the lump in his throat though, because the last thing most survivors of trauma want is to be pitied. Sympathy? Yes. Understanding? Yes. Pity? Not so much.

 

“That’s probably best anyway,” he says. Then, since this conversation is already getting too tense,  “We’ve got a lot of things to talk about later, but for now, how would you like to just talk to your dad for a while?”

 

Stiles' eyes light up, and it’s the first time Derek’s seen him look genuinely happy since they met.

 

“Actually, he must have a camera in his computer, right? You guys could video chat if you want,” Isaac suggests.  

 

Stiles opens his mouth and snaps it shut a few times, then actually lets out a small laugh, like he can’t believe it.

 

“That’d be- amazing, actually. Thanks, Isaac. Thank you, Alph-”

 

“Derek,” he says. Stiles has probably had enough of dealing with werewolves for a long time, even if there wasn’t an alpha with them. Besides, he can do without the title.

 

“Derek. Thank you, Derek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! We're finally outta the basement! Only took twelve chapters;)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!  
> Also, lemme know what you're looking forward to! If there's anything in particular you wanna see that you're wondering if I'm gonna include, lemme know, and I'll see if it works with where I'm going! I can't have a bunch of spoilers though, so the best I can say is probably or probably not;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' father's name is John (but really, when isn't it?).

_Bum-de dum. Bum-de duh dum. Bum-de dum. Bum-de duh dum._

 

The videochat dial tone chirps happily, in stark contrast with Stiles’ heartbeat.

 

_Bum-de dum. Bum-de duh dum._

 

What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he really is dead? What would Stiles even do? His father dying, being killed, really, in his absence had always been a threat looming overhead, but now it’s so real. Now he’s face-to-face with the computer screen, face-to-face with the reality that his father might not answer, that him not answering could really be because he’s gone.

 

_Bum-de dum. Bum-de duh dum. Blip!_

 

A frowny-face pops up on screen, alongside the words,

 

**Sorry! The recipient of your call isn’t available right now. Would you like to try again?**

 

“It’s a strange number,” Derek points out. “Give it another shot.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, trying to make himself believe that’s the reason.

 

The dial tone mocks him as it blares away.

 

_Bum-de dum._

_He is dead._

_Bum-de duh dum._

_He can’t answer._

_Bum-de dum._

_He is dead._

_Bum-de duh dum._

_He can’t answer._

_Bum-de- blip!_

 

John’s face suddenly fills the screen, and Stiles can’t help his sharp intake of breath. It seems to take his father a moment to fully register what’s going on.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Dad.”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” John repeats, as though he’s only just realized who he’s talking to. “Stiles! Oh my- _Stiles_.”

 

“H-hey, Dad. Yeah, it’s me.”

 

“Stiles,” John says, like it’s all he can say, but he sounds urgent this time. He scrabbles around his desk, quickly producing a pen and a scrap of paper. “Where are you? Do you have an address, a description? Where-”

 

“Dad, it’s fine. I’m fine-”

 

“Where, Stiles? Where are-”

 

“Dad, really, I’m okay now. Just- look.”

 

He waves to the deputy, who hurries over, holding her badge up for the camera. John visibly relaxes, flopping back in his chair, and rubbing at his temples with one hand.

 

He and Stiles both just stare for a moment, drinking in the sight of each other.

 

“Oh my god,” John finally murmurs, and yeah, Stiles knows the feeling.

 

John shakes his head, and the tears pooling in his eyes start silently spilling down his cheeks. The last time Stiles even saw his father cry was his mother’s funeral, and seeing it for the first time in so long isn’t really doing wonders for his own ability to hold it back.

 

“I missed you so much,” Stiles tells him. He doesn’t care how corny they must sound to the group of onlookers, desperately whispering each other’s names, and _oh my god_ s, and whatever else. He’s earned the right to the corniest reunion ever, if he wants it, and he does. He wants to tell his dad how much he missed him a million times, and how much he loves him and how he’s so glad he’s seeing him again and infinite other things.

 

“I missed you too,” John says. “I _still_ miss you, Stiles.”

 

Stiles offers a nod and a tight-lipped smile, trying hard not to cry. The last thing his father needs is to see how screwed up he is now, and if he starts, who even knows if he’ll be able to stop.

 

John starts to say something, but whatever it is gets cut off by a huge crashing noise from upstairs, then feet thundering down the steps. Stiles flinches but his father doesn’t look surprised, more like confused, as though he’d forgotten something important.

 

Which, yeah, becomes evident when Scott, clearly with the help of werewolf speed, comes crashing into the picture.

 

“Stiles!”

 

“Scotty,” Stiles manages, barely able to hold back a choked off noise in his throat.

 

“Are you okay?” Scott demands. “Where are you? How are you calling us?”

 

“He’s alright, kiddo,” the sheriff says, reaching behind him to drag over a footrest, then scooting over so Scott can sit and fit in the screen next to him. “They found him.”

 

“Oh my god,” Scott breathes, dropping heavily onto the seat.

 

“Yeah, that’s been the general consensus,” Stiles teases. “If you cry too I’m gonna start building an ark.”

 

Scott huffs a laugh but his eyes are already wet, even though he keeps brushing at them. Stiles, though, is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Scott _and_ his father are okay. Both of them. The alphas didn’t kill them or hurt them or take them or anything. They’re fine. Thank _god_.

 

“What’re you doing at my house?” he asks, because it’s certainly not uncommon for the two of them to hang out together, but Scott/John bonding sessions are a little bit more of a rarity. “Is Melissa okay?”

 

“Of course, dude, she’s fine. Don’t worry, everyone’s okay, okay? I’m gonna text her in a few, just- god."

 

“He’s over here because he’s been helping out,” John adds. “Cooks me dinner a lot of nights, even though I told him god knows how often he doesn’t need to." He wraps an arm around Scott’s shoulders and shakes them fondly. “We always knew he was a good kid though, huh?”

 

Stiles can’t even express how much he appreciates it. It’s not like Scott’s a master chef or anything, but having someone who’s been dropping by to make sure his father is still eating, and hopefully not drinking, is a huge weight off his shoulders. He hopes he can convey all that with his, “Thanks, dude. That’s- that’s awesome of you.”

 

Scott ducks his head sheepishly, the dork, and Stiles grins.

 

“Vegetables,” Scott says. “The green ones. I think he might be starting to hate me.”

 

“Good,” Stiles laughs. “If he complains about the food, that’s how you know he’s healthy.”

 

“Much as I hate to interrupt your sharing of ways to assault my tastebuds,” John cuts in. “Scott asked a good question a minute ago. How are you calling us?”

 

He suddenly looks suspicious again, and rightfully so, considering it’s not like most police stations just let their newly recovered kidnapping victims video-chat people.

 

“It’s fine, Dad. I promise, I’m fine. I’m not at the station. I- we just uh, had one of the deputies come down. I’m at an alpha’s house. Derek Hale.”

 

He turns the screen toward Derek, who looks surprised at the attention suddenly on him, and gives an awkward, stunted wave.

 

“Two of his betas are here too,” Stiles adds, and Isaac and Peter both nod at the sheriff, who returns it.

 

Stiles turns the screen back toward himself, and his father mutters, “Look that alpha up,” to Scott, as though Stiles, and probably Derek, can’t hear.

 

Scott pulls out his phone and starts typing, but can’t seem to keep his eyes on his screen for more than two seconds at a time; he keeps glancing back up like he’s double, triple, quadruple-checking that Stiles won’t suddenly be snatched away again.

 

There’s silence for a moment, with Stiles and his father having gone back to just looking at each other, before Scott apparently finds something.

 

“Hey man, so uh… do you know where you are?" 

 

“Some place called Beacon County,” Stiles says. “But I don’t know where it is, actually.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Scott says, frowning. “Looks like you’re in California.”

 

“ _What?”_ he and his father ask, at the exact same time.

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, like he can’t believe it, even though he’s the one delivering the news. “That’s where there’s an alpha called Derek Hale.”

 

“We’re in California?” Stiles asks, gaping at the wolves over his computer screen.

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking uncomfortable. “Where are you from?”

 

“New York,” Stiles says slowly, trying to process how they could’ve possibly gone that far. “That’s a three day ride, isn’t it?”

 

“At least,” John says indignantly.

 

“You didn’t have any idea how long you were driving?” Scott asks.

 

“I was unconscious for most of it.”

 

It takes him a moment, in his distraction, to realize how bad that sounded. His father looks horrified now, and even more outraged than before.

 

He winces, but tries to play it off. “It’s fine, Dad, really. Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

 

“Stiles,” his father says, voice too quiet. “How long would you say you were driving, if you had to guess?”

 

“I don’t know,” he lies, but the look on his father’s face is hard to resist. “Maybe like… probably four hours or so? I knew it was somewhat longer, since I was out, but… but three days is- I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

 

It kind of makes his skin crawl, thinking about being unconscious that long around people like the alphas.

 

“Did they at least catch Kurt?” John demands.

 

“Kurt?”

 

“The guy who- well, I guess it was just an alias. But the guy who took you, Stiles. Did they catch him?”

 

His father looks so hopeful; it kills Stiles to crush him.

 

“No, I uh, I escaped. This woman who was working with them, she helped me. It’s a long story, but I’ll- I have to tell you later. But Dad, how’d you know his name? Or his- his not-name?”

 

“He left a few notes,” John sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

 

He looks so tired, like his entire life exhausts him. It probably does.

 

“What’d he say?” Stiles asks. “Did he tell you anything about himself?”

 

Stiles figures Deucalion is probably the one who was writing the notes. He wonders if he'll have to tell his dad about the werewolves, or if he already knows based on whatever Deucalion said.

 

“They’re down at the station, but I can show you them sometime,” John says. “But no, he mostly talked about you, not him.”

 

He looks so upset, and Stiles thinks he probably doesn’t even _want_ to know what they said.

 

“I should tell you some stuff about them I guess,” Stiles says, even though putting his dad through having to hear anything about the alphas is the last thing he wants to do.

 

“Them?” John asks. “There was more than one?”

 

“The guy writing you was probably the leader, Deucalion. But yeah, there were five of them. Four men and a woman. They were all werewolves. Alphas.”

 

John visibly pales, and Stiles is grateful for the reassuring hand Scott clamps on his shoulder.

 

They’re both silent for a moment before Scott asks, “You said this guy Deucalion was the alpha? We could try to see if anyone’s heard of him. I mean, an alpha hasn’t gone rogue in like-”

 

“No,” Stiles interrupts. “Not just him. All of them. Five alphas.”

 

The only people who don’t practically gasp, “What?” are the deputy, who stares, wide-eyed, and Peter, who looks surprised, but fascinated.

 

He’s the first to speak up, asking, “Five, you said? In one pack?”

 

“Yes.”

 

All he gets in response is a _hmmmmm_.

 

Stiles can’t tell if it’s disbelieving or not, but it still grinds on his nerves.

 

“Are you sure they were all alphas?” Derek asks, sounding doubtful.

 

Maybe it’s irrational, considering how crazy it must sound, but the disbelief everyone’s expressing pisses him off. If he had to suffer through all that, the very least they could do is _believe_ him.

 

“Yes, I’m fucking _sure_. It’s hard to miss something like that when you spend two months locked in hell with them. But no, yeah, you’re right, maybe I’m just _confused_. It’s hard to imagine what could’ve possibly led me to that _absurd_ conclusion, isn’t it? _Hmmmmmmm_. Maybe it was the extra-long claws that tipped me off, when they raked them into my back. And it’s not like they liked to remind me how insanely powerful they are and how pathetically weak I am, or like they liked to walk around with their eyes lit up red half the time for the hell of it, or anything like that. Or oh, I know! Maybe it was the super strength that really got the message across. You know, when they were beating me absofuckinglutely senseless? So yeah, I’m pretty shit-damn- _fucking_ sure they were all alphas, thanks.”

 

He breathes out an angry breath and flops back in his chair, not even having realized he started to lean forward as he yelled. Yelled. Right at an alpha. A big, potentially-scary alpha, with the same red eyes, and long claws, and super strength. An alpha who now looks taken aback, which could easily turn to offence, which could easily turn to Stiles being ripped to shreds if he so desires, and Stiles went and _yelled_ at him, and-

 

“Stiles?”

 

His father’s voice breaks through, jolting him from the impending panic.

 

And right; his father. His father whose voice managed to convey exhaustion and anger and worry and brokenness, all in one syllable. Stiles pulls the laptop down from where he’s clutching it to his chest. Scott’s calming hold on his father’s shoulder has turned into a death grip, and neither of them seem to notice. Even worse than hearing his dad’s voice, though, is seeing his face—there’s an unmistakable guilt in his eyes that Stiles wishes he never had to see.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just-”

 

“No,” John cuts him off. “We’re sorry.” Scott nods vehemently next to him. “We should’ve found you sooner, should’ve- should’ve done something more, should’ve-”

 

“No, Dad. There’s nothing you should’ve, or could’ve done. I know you did everything you could. I’m glad you didn’t come for me.”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“No, I’m glad. Okay? Do you know how many time they threatened to,” _to kill you, to rip you apart, to just chain you up and make you watch_ , “hurt you? Scott, too, and Melissa. They knew things, Dad. They were crazy. I’m glad you didn’t come, so you are- you’re forbidden to feel bad about it, or sorry, or whatever, okay? I’m glad.”

 

“Okay,” John acquiesces, after a long pause, if only for Stiles’ benefit. “You can’t feel guilty either, Stiles. I’ve dealt with these cases, kid, and people always end up blaming themselves. Not you, alright? The only ones who are going to be sorry are the monsters who- who _did that_ to my son. They’re going to be sorry.”

 

Stiles nods, takes a deep breath.

 

“You too, Scott,” he says. “Don’t go giving yourself those puppy eyes in the mirror or something, alright? I’m okay now, so no feeling bad. Got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott agrees half-heartedly, but at least it’s something.

 

Stiles yawns, and John looks surprised when he checks his watch to see it’s ten o’clock.

 

“You should get some sleep, Stiles. You must’ve had a long day.”

 

He looks sad even as he says it, and Stiles can relate; he _is_ exhausted, tired to his bones, but he doesn’t want to stop looking at Scott and his dad, ever.

 

“Are you staying with Alpha Hale?” Scott asks.

 

“Yes,” Derek says, and Stiles turns the screen back toward him, but can’t actually bring himself to look. “The sheriff’s department down here doesn’t want to get involved in an investigation, since it’s a case of violent werewolves. Especially now that they’re alphas.” Stiles can feel all eyes in the room on him, but keeps his trained on his lap. “My pack and I are going to do our own investigation, and they’ll be brought up on the highest charges when we catch them—and we will, sir. We’ll do anything we can. Stiles has to stay here in the meantime, if that’s-”

 

“I know,” John says, though he doesn’t sound at all happy about it. “I’m a sheriff, Alpha. I understand it’s necessary.”

 

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Derek says. Stupid alphas. Why do they have to sound so formal all the time? “Stiles has agreed to stay in the pack house till we’ve figured everything out. We told him you’re more than welcome to come down and stay with us too, if you want. And uh- Scott? He can too, if-”

 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles interjects, finally looking up at Derek. He angles the computer to be facing himself again. “Scott can’t, no. My dad, either.”

 

He locks eyes with Scott, who thankfully understands right away. Derek’s another alpha, and he would clearly be able to smell it on Scott. There would be questions, too many of them unanswerable. He doesn’t have a territory and he doesn’t plan to apply for one. He has no werewolf relatives, meaning he was bitten. But if he was bitten, then he had to kill someone to become alpha, and the last thing they need is people suddenly thinking he’s a murderer and throwing him in jail.

 

Except Scott’s not a murderer, he’s a stupid true alpha—the worst thing to happen to him, honestly—and they’ve successfully kept the secret for years now. Derek may want to help, but there’s no way he wouldn’t immediately spread word to all the other alphas that there’s a true alpha again, the first in a hundred years. That would probably lead to a repeat of the alpha pack, or some fanatic shooting Scott, or people trying to push him into a position of power when he’s not even out of college yet. They’ve discussed in detail, time after time, reasons Scott should and should not come out as a true alpha; should not always wins.

 

“Yeah, thank you, Alpha Hale, so much, but I can’t,” Scott says.

 

“Not a problem,” Derek says. “But why not your father?”

 

“Stiles,” John says, looking confused, and definitely a little hurt. “Why would I not come down there?”

 

“You can’t,” Stiles insists.

 

How is he supposed to explain that a pack of insane alphas want to somehow use Stiles to get to Scott because he’s a true alpha and they have some creepy, unknown plan about how to use that to their advantage, but their emissary _also_ has a plan, and ensured him that his father and Scott and Melissa would be safe, _but,_ that there’s no guarantee about their safety if Stiles allows her plan to be screwed with by his father flying down to California, all while Derek’s standing right there?

 

“You just- you can’t Dad, okay? It’s not safe.”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“I can’t,” Stiles grits out, and his vision goes blurry with tears. He wipes them away, frustrated, but it’s too late now.

 

 _Pathetic_ , the alphas voices echo in his head _._

 

_Crying like a child._

 

_Stupid, useless, pathetic._

 

_Who do you think cares if you cry?_

 

“I can’t explain. It’s just… the circumstances are complicated. It’s…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to possibly explain it, and how he can warn them to be careful. They have a code word for talking about Scott’s alphahood in public emergencies, but if he just drops it on them that that’s what it’s about with no explanation, Scott’s going to feel like absolute shit. Plus, Derek’s pack will know something’s up, considering Stiles can’t even attempt to put it in some sort of believable false context. Still, it’s not like he has a ton of options here. “It was about Scott’s cousin, okay?”

 

_Your furry, wolf-y, fang-y cousin, also known as you._

 

Predictably, Scott’s face immediately falls, and tears spring to his eyes, too. Excellent.

 

_Stiles Stilinski, making people hate themselves, one piece of news at a time._

 

“Stiles-”

 

“No,” he says, because he can’t deal with all of this right now, not in front of all of these people. “Just tell him it’s not his fault, okay?” Scott just stands there looking devastated, and Stiles can’t have him thinking it’s his fault. It’s not. It’s the stupid alpha who bit him all those years ago’s fault, and it’s the stupid alphas who took Stiles’ fault, and it’s _Stiles’_ fault, but it’s not Scott’s. “Scott, tell him. Tell him it’s not his fault, at all. And that he’s not allowed to feel guilty, and that I’ll explain it all, okay? It was just a bunch of crazy alphas. _No one’s_ fault but theirs. But it’s just- it’s not safe for my dad to come down, okay?”

 

Scott nods, but it kills Stiles to see how obviously he’s blaming himself.

 

“Stiles, you have to be careful,” his father says. He looks more weary than surprised, like this is all just too much for him, and it is. He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this shit.

 

“I know, Dad. I will. I won’t let anything happen.”

 

“No,” John says, like it’s not good enough. “If I can’t see you in person, I need to know you’re okay, always. I want you, or someone in that pack to pick up a cellphone for you, okay? Tomorrow. I want its GPS programmed with the coordinates of that house and territory, and I want it linked to my phone so I know you’re safe.”

 

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

 

“I want it on you at all times,” John pushes. “ _Always_. I need to know you’re safe. I can’t- I can’t lose you again, Stiles.”

 

Looks like they’ve gone full circle, with his father joining in on his and Scott’s crying fest again, which really isn’t as fun as the name would suggest.

 

“Always, Dad. Got it. I need you to do a few things for me, too. Get your hands on some mountain ash from the station and put it around the house, okay? Melissa’s too. Yeah, I know, Scott won’t be able to leave without her,” he adds, when Scott starts to say something. “But no one’ll be getting in while you sleep, either. She can just clear it for you when you need to leave and come back. And make sure the bullets you’re carrying are wolfsbane, okay? Keep your gun with you. You have the concealed weapon permit, so put it to good use, okay? Even if you think you don’t need it- just… I think you do, alright? So just take it with you anyway.”

 

“Okay,” John agrees. “Of course, kid. We’ll be careful. I want you calling me every day. Texting me every few hours, and before you go to bed. Yeah?”

 

“You wanna write out a whole contract?” Stiles asks, trying desperately to lighten the mood, because Scott and his father just look so wrecked.

 

“I might make you,” John says, trying for a smile. “But you get to bed, okay? Call me in the morning. I want updates on everything going on with the investigation, and Scott and I will try to do some research too.”

 

“Only online,” Stiles warns. “I don’t want either of you following some lead and getting hurt. Let me know about it first, alright?”

 

John nods, and so does Scott.

 

“You be careful, too, Hale,” John says, foregoing the respectful title, and Stiles turns the computer towards him. “If you let anything happen to my son when I’m not there, don't think I'll hesitate to-”

 

“Dad!”

 

“No it’s- it’s fine,” Derek says. He actually looks a little freaked out, and Isaac and Peter, who looked somber a moment ago, are clearly a little amused at his surprise. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll take good care of him.”

 

“Good,” John says sternly, and Stiles is surprised he even managed that order with how upset he still looks when he turns the computer back.  He’s also surprised that Derek didn’t flip the fuck out, but hey—his dad is good at reading people, and he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

“Get those injuries taken care of,” John tells him. “I want a medical report. Make sure they keep all this stuff on file. It’s important.”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“Good,” John says, seemingly satisfied. “I love you, Stiles,” he says, voice soft again. “I'm proud of you for getting away. Be careful, okay?”

 

“Of course, Dad. I love you too.”

 

His father reaches a hand out to the screen, and as cheesy as it probably looks, so does Stiles. It’s as close to a hug as they’re getting for a while.

 

“Love ya, Scott,” he adds, without dropping his hand. “And tell your mom I love her too, and I miss her.”

 

“Course, man. We love you, too.”

 

“I know,” Stiles says, smiling, mouse hovering hesitantly over the end call button.

 

“Talk to you in the morning, kiddo. Get some rest,” John says.

 

“I will. Love you,” he can’t help but say, one last time.

 

It’s been a long time since he was able.

 

“Love you too, Stiles.”

_Blip!_

 

The screen goes dark, but it’s a long moment before Stiles is able to drop his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a long time for John, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was twice as long as usual. Phew!
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I missed last weekend's update--I've been _insanely_ busy (still am!) and I literally tried to fit in this update every night this week, but yeah. Didn't work out. Thank you so much for waiting!

“I really have to get going, Alpha Hale,” Deputy Graeme says, standing. “Been off the clock for a while now, and the kids are going to want me to say goodnight before they go to bed. Probably already giving their father a hard time. You think you’re gonna be okay, Stiles?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. Derek can hear his heart skip a beat. “I’m fine. Thanks for… everything.”

 

“No problem, hon,” she says, smiling at him kindly. “Alpha Hale’s a good man. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

 

Stiles nods, teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

 

“Do you think I could have a word?” Derek asks, as Graeme heads toward the front door.

 

“Of course.”

 

He hears Isaac loudly offer Stiles dinner, a thinly-veiled but appreciated attempt at a distraction.

 

She steps outside and Derek rests against the doorframe. The living room had started to feel hot—or maybe it was just him—and the cool night breeze feels good as it blows by.

 

“Could you do me a favor and not mention all this down at the station? Stiles seems really jumpy about everything, and he’s clearly not telling us everything that’s going on here. I don’t want rumors spreading, and you know how the news reporters are.”

 

“Of course, Alpha,” she agrees. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, all I’ve got down there are a bunch of grumpy veterans, and they’re not too big on gossip.”

 

“Thank you, Tara.”

 

“Not a problem,” she says, starting back toward her patrol car. “For the record, I think you’re handling this as well as you can. Your mother would be proud.”

 

* * *

 

Derek takes the roundabout way to the kitchen, avoiding passing by Stiles again.

 

Isaac’s already there, heating something in the microwave.

 

“He wanted soup?” Derek asks.

 

“Nope.”

 

“You’re making him some anyway?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Thanks, Isaac.”

 

“Yup.”

 

* * *

 

“We’re back!” two voices call, the same instant the front door bangs open, and the next thing Stiles knows he’s on the floor.

 

No one’s on top of him, or even near him, and it takes a moment to realize that he scrambled over the arm of his chair. His subconscious or nervous system or  _whatever_ is going to get a very firm talking to later. He stares up—which really, is about forty-seven different levels of embarrassing—at the three people now standing in the entranceway leading into the foyer. They stare right back in varying degrees of confusion. 

 

There’s a girl, with brown hair and a strong jawline, her features slightly reminiscent of Derek’s; his sister, then. Next to her is a blonde with a leather jacket and bright red lipstick, and Stiles recognizes her as one of the ones who called out, and that she’s also the one who came into the basement last night. Holding hands with her is a black guy, tall and strong-looking. He seems calmer than the other two, the only indication that he finds Stiles’ current position strange being a single raised eyebrow. It doesn’t look judgmental, Stiles thinks. Only curious. Which, yeah. He sort of just flung himself to the floor for no apparent reason, so even if it _were_ judgmental, he would find it hard to blame the guy. It’s just- a combination of yelling and a sudden loud noise and that Derek’s repeatedly mentioned his three other betas, who’re _werewolves_ , and well... _one, two, three_.

 

Derek and Isaac appear in the other doorway, looking concerned. Peter hardly moves from his position on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table and head lolled backwards.

 

“He fell,” he tells them serenely, and Derek rolls his eyes.

 

_Fell; dove off an armchair. Same difference._

 

Stiles stands slowly, brushing himself off. He hopes none of them take particular notice that he doesn’t actually move out from behind the chair, and that his grip on its cushy back might be a bit too tight.

 

“What happened?” Derek asks, looking to the others.

 

“I flung the front door open,” the brunette says slowly. “I didn’t think- you know.” Her eyes flit from Derek to Stiles and back again. He knows she probably doesn’t mean anything by it, but the _I didn’t think the guy would flail right out of his seat_ was implied. And understandable.

 

“Is one of them Erica?” Stiles asks, turning to Isaac. Maybe he can just… brush the whole thing off. “Because I think this means I still win the crazy contest.” His voice comes out as lighthearted as he can manage, even though every werewolf in the room—six of them, dear god—can obviously hear his heartbeat still racing.

 

“Isaac’s been talking about me behind my back?” the blonde, Erica, asks, with a teasing lilt to her voice. “He’s _such_ a gossip. I’m guessing you’re Stiles, then?”

 

“Why? Are my coordination skills world renowned at this point? In that case, I’m always glad to meet a fan.”

 

“I like you already,” Erica says, grinning.

 

“He’s been here two days, he’s already stealing my girlfriend,” the guy next to her says. 

 

“Never,” Erica says dramatically, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then cheek, then standing on her tiptoes for his temple.

 

“Get a room,” Isaac groans when Boyd kisses the top of her head, and Erica smilingly flips him off.

 

“I dealt with worse the whole ride home, Lahey. Suck it up,” the other girl says.

 

Stiles is stupidly appreciative that the focus is off his little stunt for the moment.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Isaac mutters. “Stiles, this is the rest of the pack. Erica, Boyd, and Derek’s sister, Cora.”

 

Stiles considers saying _nice to meet you_ , but it might be a little too late once you’ve bodily flung yourself away from people.

 

“Stiles,” he says instead, nodding at each of them in turn.

 

“He was just heading to bed,” Isaac continues, blessedly saving him from further interaction. “There’s a guest room at the top of the stairs, second door on your right. The bathroom’s directly across the hall from it. I think there’s a package of toothbrushes in the drawer if you want, and I’ll see about getting you some clean clothes. Sound good?”

 

It sounds good enough that he could kiss Isaac’s feet. He’s probably already spent enough time on the floor in the past few minutes though, so he’ll settle for as big a smile as he can muster right now.

 

The stairs Isaac’s pointing to are in the hallway beyond the living room, and Derek pulls him out of the way of the door, thankfully saving Stiles the embarrassment of once again pointing out his disinclination to be near werewolves.

 

He has to practically pry his grip from the chair, and slowly shuffles across the living room.

 

“Uh, ‘night,” he calls over his shoulder. “Thanks for- you know. And sorry about… yeah.”

 

Nice, Stiles. Eloquent.

 

* * *

 

He sits on the closed lid of the toilet, head in his hands as he tries to catch his breath. The stairs were definitely too much for him, and he had naturally declined the offers of help from the others—he’d rather huff and puff his way up a full staircase, taking a heck of a lot longer than he’d care to admit, than let them near him. 

 

He had absentmindedly left the door open a crack when he came in, and now he can hear what’s probably supposed to be a private conversation coming from downstairs. The voices are hushed, but if he concentrates he can make out most of it.

 

“-mean to, but you need to be more careful.”

 

That’s Derek.

 

“Well you could’ve texted us that he was out or something,” Cora answers.

 

“We were a little busy with him calling the cops on us and being all freaked out like that.”

 

“He called the cops on you?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“It wasn’t like that. He thought we were holding him hostage here, and-”

 

“It's a ridiculously long story. I’ll catch you guys up later,” Isaac butts in. “But you need to make sure you’re being careful around him.”

 

_“Be careful. He’s probably as breakable as he looks.”_

 

_“Fuck you.”_

 

_Kali strikes him, hard. He spits out blood._

 

_“Careful,” she says again. “Duke wants him conscious when he comes down.”_

 

It takes him a minute to work himself down from the snippet of a memory, and the conversation has shifted.

 

“-to stop acting like such a weirdo.”

 

“Is that any way to talk about your uncle, Cora?”

 

She doesn’t answer, and Stiles thinks she probably just rolled her eyes; it seems like the default response to Peter.

 

He’s not fond of being talked about like he's fragile, even if it’s just to help him, and he stands back up, leaning into the counter for support. He debates whether he or not he wants to look in the mirror, but eventually curiosity overcomes him.

 

His eyes are dull and bloodshot, complete with swollen lids and a combination of bags and black eyes that make an impressive shade of purple. There’s a gash in his cheek—that he remembers getting—and another in his forehead—that he doesn’t—, each closed up with thick, black stitches. His bottom lip is split down the middle, and when he runs his tongue over it he can taste the metallic tang of dried blood. His skin is dry; his cheeks, hollow. There’s a web of thin lines across the right side of his face, a game of connect the dots he’s determined to forget. His left ear is badly inflamed, and the right isn’t looking too hot either. His nose, which must’ve been broken at least three times, actually seems to be healing okay. Small miracles, right? For all the times he’s complained about not being able to grow a beard, he’s pretty glad for it now—not looking like a caveman is always a plus. His hair is somewhat longer than usual, but it’s not exactly a big concern. There are too many other mars to count, and he tears his eyes away, not wanting to look anymore. He looks haggard, and it’s a wonder his father had managed not to recoil at the sight.

 

He roots around in the drawer, pulling out one of the promised toothbrushes, squeezing on a glob of someone’s toothpaste, and shoving it in his mouth. When he spits, it’s pink; his raw gums have easily started to bleed. He goes on anyway, oddly satisfied.

 

_Washing them away from me._

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on the bedroom door, and Isaac’s voice comes through quietly, “Hey, uh, the light’s on. You still up?”

 

Stiles wonders if he pretended to be asleep whether or not Isaac would just leave. He must be able to hear that Stiles is awake anyway, so he’s probably just asking to be polite.

 

_Don’t scare Stiles; he’ll probably, like, jump out the window or something. Or maybe just hide under his bed._

 

So he’s a little bitter. Sue him.

 

“Yeah,” he calls instead.

 

“Mind if I come in?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Isaac opens the door and leans against the frame. He’s holding a steaming mug in one hand, and the other arm is folded across his chest, holding a shirt and sweatpants.

 

“Hey."

 

“Hey.”

 

“I brought you some soup,” Isaac says, setting it down on the dresser next to the door, along with the clothes.

 

“Thanks.”

 

They’re both quiet for a while, Isaac shifting his feet, and Stiles fiddling with the corner of his blanket.

 

“So, uh,” Isaac says after a while. “We just wanted to check if you were okay. It’s been a long day, and with the rest of the pack coming home and everything- you know.”

 

“I’m managing,” Stiles says, and it’s as close to the truth as he can get. He _is_ managing. Maybe he’s doing it by falling off furniture and yelling and forcing all werewolves to keep a ten foot radius, but it’s still technically managing.

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They’re both silent for another few moments, and Isaac rakes a hand through his curls.

 

“I know this sucks for you,” he finally says. “But you can trust us. And I know the whole thing with Derek being an alpha probably makes all this worse, but I promise he’s a good guy.” He pauses, bites his bottom lip. “I know that probably doesn’t help much, like ‘hey, here’s how to not be afraid: just don’t be afraid’, right? It’s cool if you’re worried about him, but I’m just saying you don’t have to be. And the pack are good people. I can introduce you guys a little better tomorrow. You know, if you want,” he finishes lamely, trailing off at the look on Stiles’ face.

 

Stiles feels a little bad, because he knows Isaac is trying to be helpful, and more importantly, understanding, but he hates the feeling of these people dancing around his fears. He doesn’t need that; he’s a full grown adult. Except he _does_ need that, and that’s an incredibly frustrating feeling. Not that that’s Isaac’s fault, so he tries to be a little nicer.

 

“I’ll see how I’m feeling tomorrow. I should probably get to know everyone, if I’m gonna be staying here,” Stiles agrees. He doesn’t comment on the Derek thing, because honestly, he’s just not feeling up to thinking about it.

 

Isaac seems to understand, and is easily pleased by Stiles’ small agreement. “Yeah, of course. We just want you to feel comfortable here. Which, yeah. I’m probably keeping you up right now, so I’m gonna,” he jerks a thumb back at the hallway, and Stiles nods. “Light off, or…?”

 

“Off,” Stiles agrees, and Isaac flicks the switch before stepping back outside.

 

“My room’s the last door on the right if you need something. So, yeah. Night, Stiles.”

 

“Night.”

 

* * *

 

Derek can’t help but pick up on the small noises coming from Stiles’ room next door. He’d ignored his conversation with Isaac by playing music on his phone, knowing Stiles wouldn’t want some alpha listening in, even if he wouldn’t actually know. Besides, that would be pretty creepy, no matter how curious or concerned he is. Now though, when he's trying to sleep, he really can’t do anything short of shoving his head under his pillow to keep from hearing. It’s nearly midnight, and Stiles has been tossing and turning, and occasionally gasping a little, probably when he moves his body the wrong way, for the last hour and a half.

 

He wants to do something, anything, but he knows he would only make it worse. And that? Yeah. That sucks.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is exhausted. He’s dead tired, has just been through one of the longest days of his life, and he could probably sleep—no, not sleep, _hibernate_ —for the next fifty years. Which means, naturally, that he’s still awake at 11:45.

 

Once Isaac left, he’d settled into bed, skipping the dinner that he probably wouldn’t be able to stomach. Then he spent the next hour tossing and turning, stretching and curling into a ball, trying to stand and laying back down. His stitches are itchy and uncomfortable, and he thinks whatever painkillers Deaton had given him while he was out must be starting to wear off.

 

The cherry to top off his amazing day? Around midnight, he has a panic attack.

 

* * *

 

 _I’m safe and I’m away from the alphas and Dad is safe and Scott is safe and Melissa is safe and I’m safe and I’m safe and I’m safe. I’m so fucking pathetic and I can’t go five minutes without screaming or crying or having a fucking panic attack but I’m safe. They’re not going to hurt me and Derek is just a regular old alpha and they have no connection to Deucalion and I’m fine. Except they_ do _have a connection to Deucalion because Deaton is Morrell’s brother and Morrell works for the alpha pack and if she tells Deaton about me Deaton could tell Derek and Derek could tell Deucalion. Except Derek’s not going to do that because that makes no sense and he has no incentive and he seems like a decent guy and he probably made Isaac make me soup and he gave me a bed and a room and I’m fine. Except even if he doesn’t have any reason now, if he finds out about Scott he would have a reason because everyone wants power and he’s only human and people are selfish and the alphas would probably pay good money to get their plans back on track and it’s not like Derek owes me anything. But Derek wouldn’t do that and the sheriff’s department would ask questions and Dad would storm down here, guns blazing, and I’m fine. Except this pack could warn Deucalion’s pack and then they could kill Dad first and then take me and then no one would be able to stop it. But Scott, Scott knows where I am and he’ll protect Dad and everything is okay. Unless they kill Scott, too, or convince him to come to their side. Could they do that? Of course they couldn’t do that, what kind of fucking piece of shit best friend am I? Scott would die for me. I would die for Scott. I almost did die for Scott. I almost died. I could still die. What if I die?_

* * *

**_Derek Hale [11:37 p.m.]_ **

_Isaac, Stiles is freaking out next door_

****

**_Derek Hale [11:37 p.m.]_ **

_I think he’s having a panic attack_

****

**_Derek Hale [11:38 p.m.]_ **

_Are you awake?_

 

But no, of course Isaac’s not awake, or even if he is he’s not going to answer, because his phone is almost always across the room while he sleeps, charging.

 

**_Derek Hale [11:39 p.m.]_ **

_Boyd, Stiles is having a panic attack_

**_Derek Hale [11:41 p.m.]_ **

_I shouldn’t go in there, right?_

He would try Erica or Cora, but Erica’s probably with Boyd anyway, and if he’s not on his phone, neither is she, and Cora never takes her phone to bed. Derek shouldn’t be burdening his pack with this in the middle of the night, anyway, but it’s not like he can just go in there—it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that an alpha barging into his room would probably be pretty counterproductive in this situation.

 

Instead he sits there, listening to the sound of Stiles gasping and cursing and muttering incoherent things, and he feels like shit. Then he feels like shit for feeling like shit, because Stiles is the one with the right to be upset, not him.

 

* * *

 

It takes him a long time to calm down.

 

He does though, and he doesn’t even remember getting down onto the floor, but he's curled at the foot of his bed, and he gets up and climbs back in. He lays there, staring at the ceiling for a long time, adamantly pretending that didn’t just happen.

 

He tries to think about other things, but all he can focus on is how uncomfortable he is. The sheets are silk, the bed soft, the pillow down--this should be amazing. But no, the luxury is unfamiliar, and he feels silly for it, but it’s hard to sleep on something so comfy after so long spent curled up on a freezing floor in a basement. The conditions are hardly comparable. Besides, he never was able to sleep right without his pillow.

 

It’s three in the morning when sleep finally, mercifully takes him.

 

* * *

 

It's 3:15 for Derek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	15. Chapter 15

Everything hurts.

 

Everything, everything, _everything_ hurts. Getting out of bed is definitely not a viable option.

 

It was bound to happen sometime, Stiles supposes. He’s been walking up stairs and around the basement and getting on and off the table and falling off chairs and doing about a million other things Deaton would probably frown upon. Probably _will_ frown upon, considering it sounds like he’s going to be Stiles’ weird, personal doctor or whatever. When was the last time doctors even made housecalls? The fifties?

 

“Uh, Isaac?” Stiles calls, and his voice comes out strained. It seems kind of unlikely that anyone will be able to hear him, but it’s already ten o’clock, and in a house full of werewolves someone’s probably bound to notice. He sits up a little in bed, leaning his shoulders against the base of the headboard. “Isaac?” he tries again. “Or uh, anyone?”

 

It’s silent for a few moments, then there’s footsteps in the hall.

 

“Not Isaac, sorry,” Erica’s voice comes from outside. “He’s out. Want me to come in? Or to just wait for him?”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Uh, come in, yeah.”

 

He grips his blanket a little tighter, but otherwise keeps up a stoic appearance as she enters. Logically, he knows there’s no _real_ difference between Erica and Isaac. Both werewolves, both Derek’s pack, both pretty much strangers; Isaac’s just the slightly better known stranger. He’ll have to get used to everyone else eventually, though, and there’s no time like the present. Okay, well there are actually lots of better times, like _never_ , for instance, but that’s probably not going to work out.

 

“What’s up?” Erica asks. 

 

“I feel like shit. Can’t get out of bed.”

 

“No surprise there,” she says. “I’ll give Deaton a call. And don’t you dare get out of that bed, anyway. We're already gonna get our asses handed to us for letting you walk around in the first place.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles says, giving a mock salute.

 

Erica scoffs but smiles, pulling her phone from her pocket as she steps back into the hall.  

 

Stiles sinks down, pulling the blanket up over himself. He doesn’t have a particular aversion to doctors, and he _does_ have a particular aversion to pain, but he’s still not in any mood to see Deaton. For starters, Stiles had punched him pretty hard in the face, which probably isn’t the best basis for any kind of relationship. Then, of course, there’s the fact that he’s Morrell’s brother; while he grudgingly believes her story, that doesn’t mean he wants to detail every account of his abuse to her brother. He has to wonder if this guy knows anything about what was happening to him, too, or if maybe Morrell’s just the wildcard of her family. Everyone’s got one—that weird uncle off in Idaho who’s in and out of jail every three months, or the cousin half the family’s sure is on drugs. Morrell could just be the crazy little sister who’s emissary to a pack of vicious kidnappers, and no one needs to know. And if Deaton doesn’t know, Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to tell him. As panicked and irrational as his thoughts from last night were, it doesn’t mean any of it’s impossible.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Stiles,” Deaton says, standing in the doorway. Apparently it’s become an unspoken—or maybe a spoken-about-behind-his-back—rule to not actually set foot in his room. Boyd is standing behind him, a huge box seemingly full of medical supplies in his arms. Stiles has to wonder if they’re slowly getting him to interact with the other betas on purpose, or if it’s just a coincidence that different ones keep showing up. “I didn’t want to take a trip back down to the basement with you in this condition,” Deaton says, waving a hand at the box that Boyd has now set on the floor in front of them, “but this should be enough for us. Do you mind if I come over?”

 

His voice is somewhat nasally, Stiles notes with a bit of guilt, and there’s a white piece of gauze taped across his nose. So yeah, he probably doesn’t want a repeat of that whole episode. Deaton doesn’t seem too annoyed though, simply waving Boyd out of the room when Stiles nods, and turning back to him.

 

He approaches the bed, dragging his box across the floor, then pulls over the rolling chair from the desk and sits down, taking a small pad of paper and a pen from his coat pocket.

 

“How’re you feeling, Stiles?”

 

“Like shit.”

 

“So Erica told me,” Deaton says. “Do you think you could be a little more specific?”

 

“I feel like a really angry guy with a really big steam roller ran me over six times, and then a vulture swooped down and picked my guts out. And like my pain meds wore off.”

 

“Ah,” Deaton says, like that’s a far more acceptable answer. “Do you think you could sit up for me?”

 

Stiles sighs, forcing himself upwards with weak arms, and adjusts himself so his legs are hanging off the bed.

 

“And could you remove your shirt?”

 

Stiles would be reluctant to let anyone else see the ridiculous range of injuries spanning his chest and back, but considering Deaton patched him up in the first place, there’s not exactly anything he hasn’t already seen. Deaton frowns as Stiles pulls the ratty t-shirt over his head.

 

“I told them not to let you walk around,” Deaton says, looking him over disapprovingly. “I see some of the stitches came out.”

 

“My back too,” Stiles says. “Definitely felt a few of them break. They could get infected, right?”

 

Honestly, it's some sort of miracle he doesn't already have about fifteen different infections. 

 

“It’s possible,” Deaton agrees. “I’d like to fix them up to be safe.”

 

He threads a needle and, with a nod of permission from Stiles, starts in on the area just above his hip, where at least four stitches have ripped, and the skin has pulled apart again. He talks about a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo while he works, having Stiles turn around at one point to fix up his back. Stiles doesn’t like the feeling of vulnerability from having his back to a stranger, but he sucks it up and focuses instead on the sharp, steady prick of the needle.  _  
_

Deaton finishes the last patch of torn stitches and moves on to things so routine they almost seem laughable given the situation. He makes Stiles take deep breaths while he holds a stethoscope to his chest, looks in his ears, eyes, and throat, and takes his blood pressure. Then he wraps Stiles’ wrists in gauze coated in a layer of antibacterial something-or-other, which he has to admit feels great on the ripped up, partially-scabbed skin, and wraps what's apparently a sprained ankle. 

 

Once Deaton stops with all the medical jargon they don’t talk at all, the only sound in the room an occasional “take a deep breath” or “turn to the left, please” from Deaton, which Stiles is more than fine with. Finally Deaton sits back in his chair, scribbling on his notepad.

 

“I think that’s all there is to be done for now,” he says. “Without knowing what happened to you, that is.”

 

There’s clearly a question written in the statement, but Stiles has no desire whatsoever to talk about it, especially not with Deaton.

 

“I think you can pretty much see what happened to me,” he says flatly.

 

“I can see the end result,” Deaton concedes. “But not what happened.”

 

“Do you need to?”

 

“It would certainly be helpful in making sure we’ve covered all the bases.”

 

“But you don’t need to?” Stiles persists.

 

“I won’t force you to discuss it, no,” Deaton says.

 

“Good,” Stiles says, the _because I wasn’t going to tell you anyway_ implied.

 

“I’m keeping you on the same pain medication,” Deaton continues, switching topics, rifling through his box and handing Stiles a bottle with a few pills at the bottom. “This is all I can provide at the moment, but I’ll write you a prescription. You’re on bedrest for now. I don’t want you walking anywhere for a few days, at least not without assistance.”

 

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, considering that with his current pain level, even if he never had to get out of bed again it would still be too soon.

 

“Good,” Deaton says, standing. “Derek mentioned wanting to talk to you earlier. Should I send him up?”

 

“Oh, uh...”

 

“He said if you’re not ready that you should just say so,” Deaton adds. “Your health is more important than whatever he may want.”

 

“No, it’s- fine. I’m fine. You can send him up.”

 

“Very well,” Deaton says. “Feel better, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

This is a bad idea. Derek knows it’s a bad idea. Derek can _smell_ it’s a bad idea from all the way down the hall, but it’s not like he has a whole lot of options.

 

The scent of fear only intensifies as he gets closer, and he figures Stiles must’ve just picked up on his footsteps.

 

He knocks on the door and waits for Stiles to call him in. He starts to wonder if maybe he should just go back downstairs after a solid fifteen seconds of no reply, but finally Stiles’ voice comes through the door.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Another pause.

 

“You wanna come in?”

 

“If it’s okay with you,” Derek says, even though it’s clearly, clearly not.

 

“Yeah, sure, I- Of course. Come in.”

 

Derek opens the door, setting down the chair he brought from downstairs just outside the doorframe. Stiles is sitting against his headboard, a pillow behind him and his left foot propped up on another. His heartbeat is rabbiting, and he keeps looking up at and back away from Derek in what he seems to think is a nonchalant manner. When Derek pulls some paper and a pen from his pocket, Stiles surprises him by actually smiling.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, it’s just, like, bring-your-own-chair-and-writing-utensils-to-Stiles’-room day today,” he says. His voice is pretty level, considering. If he wants to act like he’s not nervous, Derek’s more than happy to play along.

 

“Just wanted to get the investigation started,” Derek says, trying not to feel too bad about the look on Stiles’ face at the mention of dredging up all his bad memories. “Oh, and Isaac picked up a phone for you this morning, by the way,” he says, to at least offer some good news. “I think he’s setting it up downstairs. We’re just adding it to my plan, since no one really wants to sit on the phone with customer service for five hours.”

 

“That’s really nice,” Stiles says, almost carefully. “I’m kinda just working at a library right now—well uh, I was—but I’ll have my dad transfer some money into my account today to pay you guys back.”

 

“You don’t have to,” Derek says immediately, though he has no idea why. It’s not like they don’t have more than enough money, but it’s also not like he really knows Stiles or anything.

 

“Do you know how much phones cost?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

 

“If you have to stay here, the least we can do is make sure you can talk to your family,” Derek says, justifying it to himself just as much as Stiles.

 

“Seriously, it’s no big deal. When I get back to work I’ll just pay my dad back.”

 

Derek doesn’t point out that he probably won’t be getting back to work anytime soon, instead opting to just let it drop.

 

“But thanks for the offer. That’s really cool of you,” Stiles adds. 

 

Derek nods, not really sure what else to do.

 

“So about the case,” he says after a moment, watching with guilt as Stiles’ face falls again.

 

It’s definitely going to be a long morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm _so_ sorry for the lateness--I'll mention it at the end.

Derek is so clearly out of his comfort zone it’s laughable. Then again, maybe it’s more laughable that Stiles is sitting here all freaked out by a guy who’s so clearly out of his comfort zone. It’s all about perspective, he supposes.

 

Derek’s been asking questions for a while, but really, he seems more caught up in not upsetting Stiles than in actually getting any information out of him. And that? Yeah, that’s kind of upsetting in and of itself. Stiles is fine, as long as Derek stays where he is and doesn’t make any sudden moves or raise his voice or- yep, he’s just _fine_. The thing is, Derek’s fine too. He’s being perfect, sitting by the doorway and respecting Stiles’ boundaries, making sure his pack does, too. So really, it’s not exactly fair to snap at Derek for being nice to him, so he stays silent, and tries his best to help the guy out.

 

“You probably want to know what they look like and whatever, right?” Stiles prompts when Derek runs out of questions, since he seems to have no clue what he’s doing.

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, sounding a little relieved, maybe. “That’d be good.”

 

 “Right,” Stiles says, readjusting himself against his pillows. “Descriptions. Okay. You know, this is actually kinda hard. Like, I know what they look like, obviously, but I wasn’t really thinking about having to describe them to the police or anything when I looked at them. Like, looking at them usually involved a thought process more along the lines of wow-your-face-is-full-of-fangs-so-who-cares-about-other-features. Not that… not that there’s something _wrong_ with fangs or anything. Obviously. They’re totally cool—my best friend has ‘em. Just, ya know, I don’t like them in my face. Well, _near_ my face. Well, _in_ my face too, but that sounds even more painful, so yeah. _Anyway_ , of course I know their basic features like hair color and stuff, because duh, but how helpful is that, really? I’ll have to ask my dad how the hell they catch criminals based on crap like ‘he had blond hair and blue eyes and was around six feet’ because seriously, that’s totally unhelpful. Do you know how many guys there are like that on the planet? It’s a lot. But I’ll describe them to you anyway, because you’re especially not gonna catch them _without_ a description. That’d be pretty weird, like—I’m rambling, aren’t I?” he asks, catching himself as he notices how wide-eyed Derek has gone. Yep, leave it to Stiles to confuse the hell out of the poor guy. “Sorry, I do that when I’m nervous. Kind of an annoying habit, I guess. Dad always used to say I’d grow out of it, but sometimes—uh… You know what? Why don’t I just describe them for you?”

 

Derek nods, and he definitely looks relieved this time.

 

* * *

 

Stiles gets out an entire monologue in under a minute—and Derek certainly doesn’t miss the way he cringes when he thinks he’s offended him with the whole fangs thing—but now he doesn’t seem able to say much at all.

 

“I’ll just uh… pick one, I guess? And tell you what I can?” Stiles asks, scratching at the back of his neck.

 

“Whatever works for you,” Derek says, even though that’s probably not a typical police policy. He’s seriously going to need some help here.

 

“Right,” Stiles says. “So uh… Deucalion. I'd spell it for you, if I had any idea how. He was the leader. Probably the guy who left my dad those notes.”

 

Derek scribbles things down as Stiles talks, and he seems to gain a little confidence when Derek isn’t watching, so he does his best to keep his eyes trained on the paper.

 

“I think he was just under six feet, and uh, I’m terrible at this kind of thing but I guess he was just average weight for that size? But really muscly. Um, maybe in his early forties, and he had light brown hair, and he’s Caucasian. He wears sunglasses sometimes, but when he’s not his eyes are this milky red color, and his irises are kinda blue/gray. And he’s blind.”

 

“Blind?” Derek asks, because that one’s definitely a surprise.

 

“Yup. Don’t think he was born that way, considering how his eyes looked. Something pretty bad must’ve happened to keep him from healing. Oh, but yeah, when he’s wolfed out he can see.”

 

Derek’s never heard of anything like that before, but it could probably be a good thing. Blind werewolves are pretty uncommon, and Stiles is right that whatever caused it must have been pretty terrible to prevent him from healing. It can’t be that hard to find someone with some details on a guy like that, can it?

 

“He has a British accent, too,” Stiles adds. “But the rest of them don’t.”

 

“Alright,” Derek says, adding that to his list. He’ll have to turn all this over to the sketch artist at the station, when those guys actually get themselves back here, and _if_ he wants to help out unlike the rest of them. “What were the others like?”

 

“There was Ennis. He was their muscle, I guess. I mean, they were all pretty buff, but this guy was just like, completely ripped. Bald, brown eyes, could probably crush your head with two fingers. Well, my head. I dunno about yours.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles gives an awkward cough.

 

“Right, anyway. He didn’t crush my head, so three cheers for that, huh? He was maybe like, 6’3 or 6’4? Really big. And maybe like, in his mid-thirties? He and Kali were kind of a thing, so that makes sense. So uh, Kali next I guess, then—that was the girl. Um, she was African American, and she had brown eyes and hair. Probably in her mid-thirties too. Same height as Deucalion. And uh… she had this weird thing about not wearing shoes? Liked to walk around barefoot, and lemme tell you dude, that woman needed a pedicure. Feet claws are not attractive.”

 

Derek gives a surprised huff of laughter at the image, because his certainly aren’t either, and he’s actually seen Cora and Erica go so far as to paint theirs. Stiles startles just a little at the sound, as though he’d forgotten who he was talking to.

 

“What? Thinking about how your girlfriend actually has really nice feet claws?”

 

“Naturally,” Derek deadpans, and it gets the smallest of smiles out of Stiles.

 

Hey—it’s progress.

 

* * *

 

“Is that all you can remember about them?” Derek asks, after Stiles has made his way through all the descriptions. His eyes had gone comically wide at the mention of identical twins, such an incredibly rare occurrence in werewolves, with the way they can shift into a single wolf, making him once again seem a little more relatable. It’s probably a little sad to keep trying to pick up on these far-reaching differences between Derek and the alphas, but they really do help, in a way.

 

“Uh… yeah,” Stiles says slowly. It’s really, really not something he likes to dwell on, but it’s clearly not something to leave out. “They all, they all uh… had blue eyes.”

 

“You said blue and brown,” Derek says, like he doesn’t get it, or maybe like he doesn’t want to.

 

“No, yeah, their regular eyes. But when they wolfed out, not in alpha form… they glow blue.”

 

“Blue,” Derek repeats slowly.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles huffs. “Glow blue like I’m-a-raging-lunatic-who-murdered-some-innocent-person blue. All of them had them.”  

 

“That’s awful,” Derek says, and if he were anyone else, Stiles would probably say, _duh_.

 

“It should help though, right?” he asks. “Not a whole ton of werewolves have blue eyes. Most of the ones who do are in jail, or on the run somewhere.”

 

Derek gives a short nod.

 

“Right, so if they broke out of jail, they’d have their prints and stuff, so it probably wouldn’t be too hard to track them back down. And then if they were on the run in the first place, well, someone’s got to have seen them, and there might be police reports on them somewhere, at least, right?”

 

“Makes sense,” Derek agrees.

 

“This is why they should lock anyone with blue eyes up, no questions asked." 

 

Derek gives another fraction of a nod.

 

“I mean seriously,” Stiles rants. “If your eyes turn blue, that means the death was your fault. There was an innocent person, and you killed them. Blows my mind that cases like that even make it to court. Like, the fucking  _universe_ decided you were responsible; I think whatever forces of nature are at play know a little more than some judge in a courtroom, ya know? Honestly. They let them go, or they don’t work hard enough to catch them, and then they go off and do things like start fucking kidnapping people. God, forget jail—they should just hand every blue-eyed freak over to the hunters and let them take care of it. Slowly, preferably,” Stiles grumbles, crossing his arms and settling further back into his pillow.

 

Derek’s looking at him solemnly, like Stiles just kicked his puppy—or slaughtered it—and he realizes that that might’ve been a little insensitive. _Occasionally_ there’s some sort of fluke, where the person really isn’t all that responsible, and it looks like Derek must know one of them.

 

“But I digress,” he says, trying for a weak smile in the face of a very grave-looking alpha. “Got a little worked up there—seriously, I’ve gotta talk to Deaton about getting me a bottle of Adderall or twelve. Got ADHD, and withdrawal is not my friend. It’s not _everyone’s_ fault, I guess. Sometimes it’s pretty much unavoidable, and the eyes still turn blue.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek mutters gruffly. “Sometimes.”

 

* * *

 

“What about Scott’s cousin?” Derek asks. He still looks a little somber, but Stiles tries not to let it bother him too much. “You told your father he couldn’t come down because of him.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles mutters, averting his gaze.

 

“How does he come into things?”

 

“Well,” Stiles starts. There’s not exactly a great answer, considering if he makes up a whole new cousin of Scott’s and somehow tries to tie him in, things will get about a million times more complicated. No, no more lies. But building on old ones, well... “Scott doesn’t actually have a cousin. I made it up.”

 

“You made it up,” Derek repeats dubiously.

 

“Yes,” Stiles says.  He’s not lying, because he did make it up, sort of, but he’s under no illusion that Derek’s not listening in to his heartbeat as they talk. Which really, is just rude. He’ll just have to tread carefully. “Scott’s a werewolf, and we call his wolf side his cousin.”

 

When Stiles glances back up, Derek’s staring at him like he’s insane. He doesn’t think he’s ever met someone with eyebrows quite so expressive.

 

“It’s a bitten human thing,” Stiles continues, though he really has no idea where he’s taking this. “Like, slang. From where we’re from.”

 

And technically, it _is_ slang where they’re from. As in, John and Melissa’s houses. Close enough; Derek seems to buy it.

 

“What does that have to do with you being kidnapped? Did Scott know them?” Derek asks.

 

“No! No, uh, he didn’t.” God, the last thing he needs is Derek trying to drag Scott’s ass down here for questioning. Not only would they think he’s a murderer, but one with a relationship to a kidnapping ring—wouldn’t _that_ look good in a police report? “Scott’s never met them in his life. I just- I made it up. For uh, my dad.”

 

“Your dad?” Derek says slowly.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles lies. Flat out lying now, which is always a good plan in front of a werewolf. “I don’t want him to come down here, you know? I look pretty... screwed up. And I’m all jumpy and shit, I don’t need my dad seeing that. He uh, he already lost my mom, I’m kind of all he’s got left." _Nice. Pull the dead mom card. That's not a cheap way out at all._ "I just made up some BS about it having to do with Scott so I could heal up first, and explain later. Come up with a better reason he can’t come down here yet, ya know?”

 

“But Scott believed you too,” Derek points out, oh-so-unhelpfully. “He looked pretty upset.”

 

“Uh, yeah. I’m going to explain it to him later, too. Text him when I get the phone, make sure he stops worrying.”

 

_Wow, that doesn’t make me sound like a shitty person at all._

 

“Sounds like those lies are going to be hard to get out of,” Derek says, sounding oddly concerned, which makes Stiles, even more oddly, feel guilty.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Tell me about it.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So again, sorry that chapter was crazily late. It's been a long month, homework-and-everything-else-wise, so yeah. I'm super sorry, thanks for being patient!
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	17. Chapter 17

“How’s it going?” a voice calls from down the hall, and Stiles recognizes it as—Nora? Cora? Shit, he knew it last night. Well, Derek’s sister; that he’s sure of.

 

“Good,” Derek calls back. Good might be stretching it if you ask Stiles, but they’ve made some minor progress and Stiles has kept his cool, so maybe he’s not too far off the mark.

 

The girl appears over Derek’s shoulder, leaning into the back of his chair.

 

“Hey there, Der-bear,” she greets, ruffling a hand in his hair.

 

Derek grimaces, and she grins.

 

“Der-bear doesn’t like people touching his hair,” she intones. “He’s got it perfectly styled to look like he _hasn’t_ styled it,” she adds in a mock whisper.

 

“He _also_ doesn’t like to be called Der-bear,” Derek grumbles.

 

It’s kind of cute, watching them interact. Stiles can certainly see them growing up together.

 

“That’s too bad,” Stiles says. “I was looking forward to using that.”

 

Laura? Dora? — turns her smile on him.

 

“So, is Derek giving you much trouble? I know I can’t listen to him talk for more than ten minutes without losing my mind.”

 

“Do you need something?” Derek asks, scowling a little. A quick glance at Stiles has him schooling his face back to relative blankness, before he looks back to Cora.

 

“Yup. Isaac finished screwing around with this,” she says, pulling a phone from her jeans and dangling it in the air.

 

She moves past Derek in the doorway and hovers in front of him.

 

Stiles doesn’t react to the movement, and while he sits back and watches, she approaches the foot of his bed and sets the phone down. That’s closer than Stiles has willingly let any of them get, and while he’s glad for the tiny improvement, he’s even gladder when she slips back out the door to stand behind Derek again.

 

“Thanks, Laura,” he chances.

 

“Cora,” she corrects automatically, like she’s very used to the mistake.

 

Something in Derek’s expression tightens, marginally, but it’s gone within the same second, leaving Stiles to wonder if he imagined it.

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, but Cora waves him off.

 

“Long night, lotsa new people. All my teachers used to do it in school anyway,” she assures. “No big deal.”

 

“That all you need?” Derek asks. 

 

“You wish,” Cora says, mowing straight over any change in Derek’s demeanor. She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, and Stiles wonders how much stuff she can fit in those things. She makes a show of smoothing it out against Derek’s back, and Stiles tries to decide if she’s always quite so cheery, or if it’s for his benefit. Then again, little sisters _are_ universally known for being annoying, and she seems to be succeeding with Derek.

 

She clears her throat, then reads off, “Deaton wants you and Stiles to call him later. Sheriff Haigh is supposed to be back in town today. A few news reporters called Jennifer, wanting to talk to you—I told her to tell them to mind their own damn business, but apparently that’s _not good for public relations_ , blah blah blah. Peter is going out today, won’t be home till late. Isaac and Boyd think we should have a pack meeting—all of us,” she adds, looking to Stiles, “but I think we should wait till Peter is home, personally. That’s it.”

 

She balls up the piece of paper and drops it in Derek’s lap.

 

“I would deal with Jennifer first,” she suggests. “And soon.”

 

“I will,” Derek tells her. “You think we could take a break for a while?” he asks, looking to Stiles.

 

“Sure,” Stiles agrees. Always quit while you’re ahead, right? No major freak outs means he’s definitely ahead.

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, standing and picking up his chair. “Maybe give your dad a call.”

 

“Can do.”

 

Derek nods once, then closes the door behind him before following Cora back down the hall.

 

* * *

 

“Hello?”

 

“Derek,” Jennifer chirps into the phone, in the pleasant way she always does before cracking down to business.

 

“What’s up?

 

“Same old,” she says. “What’s up with _you_ is the question.”

 

Derek likes Jennifer. He does. He just isn’t a big fan of actually talking to her, because a phone call—or especially a visit—with her almost always means bad news on the media front. She’s been the Hales’ publicist for practically as long as Derek can remember, always looking a good bit younger than she is. She started the job as a part-time assistant when she was sixteen, and Derek had been nine and couldn’t care less about his mother's monthly calls with ‘Jenny’. She didn’t really have any interaction with him at all till he himself was sixteen, after everything started going downhill. Suddenly, having a pack publicist was a lifesaver.

 

“What do you think?”

 

She gives a long suffering sigh—and really, long-suffering pretty much describes their entire relationship.

 

“I think some guy got kidnapped, wound up at your house, and that Haigh won’t take the case. Now, you want to fill in the blanks for me?”

 

Reluctantly, Derek gives her a basic outline of what’s happened so far, though most of it is none of the general public’s business. He tells her how Stiles—though, to her annoyance, he leaves out the name—had been running through Derek’s territory and had passed out when Derek found him—“You carried him?” “Mmm.” “That’s noble.” “I swear to god, if you write the word _noble_ in your report-”—, how they kept him in the basement for a while—“You didn’t keep him, Derek, god. He stayed. _Stayed_.” “You asked me to tell you what happened!” “I didn’t ask you to make yourselves sound crazy!”—, how Deaton tended to his wounds, but that the hospital and sheriff’s department didn’t want to get involved—“Don’t make that sound like such a bad thing.” “How is that not a bad thing?” “You have to account for human readers. They feel the same way, I’m sure.” “That’s what _you’re_ for.” “But if they actually want to talk to you, after they read the reports, you need to be able to sound understanding.” “I’m not. It’s stupid.”—, how Stiles is stable and resting now, that they located and contacted his family, and that he’ll be staying with Derek while they figure this out— “ _There’s_ some good news. Knew you had it in you, somewhere.”

 

He listens to the sound of her fingers skittering across the keyboard, working her magic of making things sound _good_ that Derek will never understand.

 

“Tell me more,” she requests.

 

“Not everything belongs on TV.”

 

She sucks in a breath. “That doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good news.”

 

“Jennifer.”

 

“This is what _I’m_ for,” she says, echoing him. “Do you really think I’m going to put private information out? That’s the opposite of my job, Derek.”

 

“I know that,” he sighs. “Well make this a separate document or something, because none of it should be released without you telling me first.”

 

“Fine,” she says lightly, “Go ahead.”

 

“It was five alphas who kidnapped him,”

 

“Five?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Alphas_?”

 

“Jennifer, yes. Alphas. Five. Blue-eyed. Says they’re called Deucalion, Kali, Ennis, Ethan, and Aiden. They kidnapped him, tortured him-”

 

“How long?”

 

He guiltily pictures Stiles yelling at him last night.

 

_Yes, I’m fucking sure! It’s hard to miss something like that when you spend two months locked in hell with them!_

 

He hasn’t really gotten the time to think about it yet, but two months is a _long_ time. Derek can’t imagine being kept for that long—at some point you must give up on being found, right? And Stiles certainly seemed to. Even when he was rescued, he couldn’t bring himself to believe he was safe.

 

“Two months.”

 

“Wow,” she says softly. Then she pauses, like she’s bracing herself, and continues, “So, the million dollar question. Are you going to bring hunters into this?”

 

“That’s undecided and undisclosed, for now.”

 

“That wasn’t a no,” Jennifer points out.

 

“It wasn’t a yes.”

 

“Derek, it wasn’t a no. It’s _always_ a no. How serious is this?”

 

“I just told you-”

 

“I know, alphas, five, etcetera, yes. But how serious is it to you? You never want to bring hunters into anything.”

 

“I know,” he says tightly.

 

“That’s a big step.”

 

“Save it, “Derek sighs. “It still wasn’t a yes.”

 

“Well, if I can put my two cents in, I say definitely yes.” _Surprise, surprise_. “It’ll promote solidarity and trust with the humans. Besides, do you really think you can handle this on your own?”

 

“I don’t know,” he says tiredly.

 

“Well, think about it,” she orders, and the line clicks off.

 

* * *

 

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:02 p.m.]_ **

_Hey Scott, it’s Stiles_

**_Scott McCall [1:02 p.m.]_ **

_Hey! Been waiting to hear from you all morning. How’s it going? We miss you_

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:04 p.m.]_ **

_Miss you too, dude. Still can’t believe it. Spent the morning talking to Derek… he’s a pretty cool guy. Not as stuffy as most alphas. He’s got his pack walking on eggshells around me, but it's alright. And he’s got his little investigation going on, but I really don’t think he’s got a clue what he’s doing_

**_Scott McCall [1:04 p.m.]_ **

_You calling me stuffy?:P I’m glad things are working out a little. Why the eggshells? They didn’t figure out you’re the king of crossing boundaries yet? Maybe tell him to give your dad a call. I’m sure he’d be happy to give some advice, and it’d make him feel like he’s contributing. Speaking of calling, how come we’re texting instead? I miss your voice man_

Scott texts back quickly, as though he’s sitting there just staring, waiting for the next message to pop up. He probably is, and Stiles is equally as eager.

****

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:07 p.m.]_ **

_The stuffiest. And the eggshells (how many times can we say that in one convo??) are just great. There was a little stunt where I scrambled backwards off a chair when they came near me last night. No big deal. Just kinda jumpy, ya know? (I didn’t tell you and Dad yet, right? Last night was actually my second night here. They found me two days ago, but I wasn’t exactly in a sharing-my-problems state of mind. Better to talk about it on the phone though, yeah? When I can get you and my dad at once.) Anyway, I’m not exactly big on being around werewolves atm, so of course I’m living in a house with 5 of them. They’re being careful, staying on the other side of the room when they talk to me and shit. It’s kinda stupid that it helps, cuz like… werewolves. They can zip across the room in .02 seconds anyway, so it’s not like the distance matters that much. But whatever. That’s actually not a bad idea, I’ll talk to Dad about it. And I dunno, paranoia? Got a house full of wolves, and I don’t want anyone listening in._

Whatever Scott wants to reply with, he types and deletes it four times before settling on a message. Stiles can almost picture them, all the questions that’re too awkward to ask. _Does being spooked by werewolves include me? Was I bothering you last night? Are alphas especially bad, then? Am_ I _especially bad?_ But Scott, bless him, just sends,

 

**_Scott McCall [1:10 p.m.]_ **

_Makes sense. It’s kinda like spiders. You don’t like them, even though the odds of one actually biting or stinging you or whatever are really slim, and they're pretty much harmless. As long as they’re chilling in their web in the corner you’re alright, but once it starts coming closer you get uncomfortable. And if all the sudden one somehow got really close without you noticing, you’d freak out. It’s not stupid, it’s coping. And oh. Stupid werewolf hearing_

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:12 p.m.]_ **

_You, Mr. McCall, have moments of surprising eloquence_

**_Scott McCall [1:12 p.m.]_ **

_:)_

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:13 p.m.]_ **

_So how’s your mom doing?_

**_Scott McCall [1:14 p.m.]_ **

_Good! She was SO happy last night. She was crying, and then your dad was crying—serious waterworks over here, just like you said. She wants to talk to you, but her texting skills are pretty much nonexistent, like your dad’s. I’ll tell her to call you today, if that’s alright? She won’t say anything that that pack shouldn’t hear_

****

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:14 p.m.]_ **

_Definitely, tell her I can’t wait. Maybe you guys can go hang with my dad for a while today? I know everyone probably has work but…_

**_Scott McCall [1:15 p.m.]_ **

_Sure dude. Mom’s got the late shifts this week so she’s home, and your dad took the day off to wrap his head around things. We’ll all give you a call later, okay?_

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:15 p.m.]_ **

_Sounds great_

**_Scott McCall [1:16 p.m.]_ **

_Think there’s like… any way you can get some privacy in that house??_

**_Stiles Stilinski [1:18 p.m.]_ **

_Uh… yeah, maybe. The basement is soundproof, if they don’t mind me going down there_

 

Despite the million questions Stiles knows must be ripping at Scott, he doesn’t make Stiles talk about anything he doesn't want to yet.

**_Scott McCall [1:19 p.m.]_ **

_Awesome! No more dreary stuff till later. How bout I catch you up on the Mets?_

Man, he loves Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two things: 
> 
> I have a huge test next Saturday, so I figured I should warn you in advance that there probably won't be an update:( I'm really sorry for the spottiness lately, but school's really been weighing on me. On the bright side, after next Tuesday I'm done with school (with the exception of finals), so updates should start to be either closer together or longer (dunno which yet)! And even if it's not Saturday, _sometime_ that week there should be an update. 
> 
> Also, I guess this is sort of a spoiler, but I assume you picked up on it anyway just from reading this chapter, and if I don't warn you in advance you guys might think this is going in a very different direction: Jennifer is not a villain here. I'm just borrowing her character, not her plotline as the darach. 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought! :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter go together, but I've split it into two parts.

“Hey, man!” Scott says cheerily. “How’re you doing?”

 

“Same as a few hours ago,” Stiles laughs. Laughing at Scott’s enthusiasm seems like something that’s a million worlds away, but here he is, enjoying Scott’s goofy smile—thank god for FaceTime, because borrowing Isaac’s computer all the time would suck, but hearing everyone’s voices has nothing on actually seeing them again.

 

“Well I’d certainly like to hear,” comes Melissa’s voice, and Scott pulls his phone further away to reveal her and Stiles’ father squished in on either side of him on the McCalls’ couch.

 

“Melissa, hey. Oh my god, it’s so good to see you,” he says, feeling the warm pleasure creep up his spine from the smile she gives him.

 

“You’re telling me,” she says, already teary-eyed, but holding it back pretty well. She takes the phone from Scott, like holding it somehow makes them closer, but still positions it to frame all three of them. “Oh, sweetie, we missed you so much. You don’t know how good it is to see your face.”

 

“I think I have some idea,” he says. “I’ve got a pretty great view right now.”

 

His father laughs, and Stiles hates to turn his attention from Melissa, but it’s hard to focus on everyone at once.

 

“Hey, Stiles,” John says. “I missed you, kid.”

 

“Missed you too, Dad. It’s so fucking good to see all you guys again.”

 

“Language,” Melissa teases, and it’s another thing that’s so nice and _normal_ that his smile could split his face in two.

 

“Scotty, make sure you put a quarter in the swear jar for me later, yeah?”

 

“Sure, dude, I’ll dig it out of 2007 as soon as I get the chance.”

 

“Man, it’s just pick on Stiles day, huh? This is what you get for having nice childhood memories. But hey, forget childhood memories. Let’s hear some from the past couple months. I know you guys didn’t spend the whole time moping.”

 

From the way all their smiles become a little more forced, Stiles is sure that that’s exactly what they did, but he’s determined to keep the conversation upbeat for as long as possible, and they all seem willing to go along with his temporary avoidance.

 

“Mom got that promotion at work,” Scott offers.

 

“Oh, that’s awesome! Congrats, Melissa.”

 

She’d been wanting—and more importantly, deserving—a promotion at the hospital for as long as Stiles can remember. About a week before he was taken, the previous worker in the position resigned, and the board was looking over the new candidates. It’s not a huge step up, but it’ll definitely be handy around the house, especially with helping to put Scott through college.

 

“Thank you, Stiles. I’m taking you all out to celebrate as soon as we get you home.”

 

“No way. We’re taking _you_ out. It’s gonna be great.”

 

She smiles at him again, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing it.

 

They talk for a while more, trivial things about the neighbors, and the old woman who called the station last weekend because her cat was stuck in a tree and insisted the sheriff help her get it down, and how Scott finally got his bike fixed up.

 

It’s a good ten minutes before Scott asks, “So, are you alone?”

 

Well, it had to come to this eventually.

 

“Yeah, we can talk freely for a while. They have a soundproof basement, but I’m all the way upstairs, and getting me down there would’ve been quite a task.” Melissa’s features tighten a little and he knows his father probably worriedly described to her every visible injury already anyway, and it’s probably worse seeing them for herself. “So instead, the pack went out to do something, except Alpha Hale, and he’s sitting in the basement instead, kinda babysitting me from afar I guess.”

 

“Alpha Hale is sitting in the basement?” Scott asks. “That’s so weird.”

 

“I thought so too,” Stiles says, shrugging. “But when I mentioned going down there, he suggested that instead. That’s where I stayed when they first found me, so I guess they figured there’d be bad memories and stuff, too. So now Derek’s down there, just chilling, waiting for me to talk to you guys.”

 

He leaves off the part about how before leaving, Peter had gone into Derek’s room and stormed out a minute or two later, looking livid. Stiles had adamantly told himself the glare Peter had shot him when he passed his door wasn’t meant as an actual threat, that it was just a result of him being pissed about something, and that he _hadn’t_ practically melted into his bed.

 

“That's cool of him,” Scott says, nodding thoughtfully. “Glad you ended up with some decent people over there.”

 

“Me too.”

 

There's a long silence, the awkwardness and anticipation sitting thick in the air.

 

Finally, finally, his dad puts them all out of their misery. Or even further into it.

 

“So can you tell us what happened, Stiles? We really didn’t get very much of it last night.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and the other three sit in patient silence as they wait for him to begin. “I went to pick up some junk food at the QuickBuy when you were out on your shift, maybe around ten. There were no spots, so I had to park the Jeep on that dead end street. These two guys were leaning against a fence, and I remember thinking it was a little weird, but I hardly noticed. Just that it’s such a rundown area, ya know? Why would two guys just be hanging around at night, not even talking to each other? But by the time I passed them they were off my mind. I went into the store, bought a few bags of chips and whatever, and started walking back to my car. I was maybe fifteen feet from it when I passed the guys again.” He can feel his throat tightening a little, but he’s now vaguely aware that his dad is writing things down, so he forces himself to keep talking. “When I passed by, one of them was like, “Hey, you’re Stiles, aren’t you? Stiles Stilinski?” Looking back on it, it was pretty stupid of me to even turn around, but it’s not like it would’ve stopped them anyway. The one who spoke—I don’t know who it was, when they came into the streetlight it turned out they were twins—clamped a hand on my shoulder and started talking like he knew me. Random things about how I’m doing lately and whatever. And I thought maybe he was someone from highschool or something and I just wasn’t recognizing him, but it was late and it was kind of freaky, so I didn’t answer and I just let him talk for a minute, and then said I had to get going.”

 

He can hear his voice start to shake as he continues, but he can’t help it. He’s played the scene over a million times in his mind, the start of this whole mess, and worse than thinking that maybe he could’ve done something differently to stop it is knowing that it wouldn’t’ve mattered, anyway.

 

“The other guy was behind me before I had time to react. He pressed something against my throat, and I thought it was the tip of a knife at first. I don’t even know what I said, just started babbling about how my dad’s a cop and everything you’ve always told me to say in an emergency to buy time. Then suddenly there are four more things there, and he’s digging a little, and he says not to worry, that they’ll be sure to leave the sheriff their regards. I was going to scream, but the guy who was originally talking flashes his eyes at me, and they’re red. And I start flipping out, because god knows if he's planning to bite me or something-" he flicks his eyes from the fixed point beyond all their faces to Scott's, and sees he's clearly thinking of that same, life-changing (-ruining, more like) night in the woods "-or if the other guy’s a werewolf too, and that means those are _claws_ on my throat, and not a knife or something I could maybe knock out of his hand if I could outsmart him. So the first guy unlocks the car parked in front of mine and gets in, like he’s not at all concerned that I might escape. And the other one drags me back behind the car, and he says-” Stiles pauses, taking a few shuddering breaths, trying to collect himself. “He says if I’m a good boy and keep my mouth shut, they’ll take me and just go, and maybe it'll be quick. And if I prefer to make things slow and messy, I should go ahead and scream, because-” he forces himself to swallow past the lump in his throat. “Because it’s been a while since he’s gotten to experience how good it feels to rip someone’s throat out with your bare hands, and because- because McCall’s house is less than a mile away, and he’d love to see if the alpha’s mother can follow directions better than his best friend.”

* * *

Derek sits in the basement, listening, but not _listening_.

 

He can barely, just barely, make out the noises in the house if he really wants to. There are none, except for the hum of the TV in the living room that someone must’ve left on before they went out. He could hear Stiles’ voice, if he really tried, but he doesn’t. Stiles had clearly been desperate for some privacy, and maybe the sooner he speaks to his family, the sooner they can sort all of this out.

 

He’s sitting on the metal table, tapping one foot to an erratic beat, as he thinks about his conversation with Peter.

 

_“You’re joking,” Peter says flatly, entering Derek’s room without so much as knocking, and closes the door behind him. “Or have you finally just lost your mind?”_

_“Why’s that?” Derek asks, not looking up from the book he’s leafing through. He already knows exactly what Peter is here for._

_“You know, I thought I made myself rather clear the other day when I gave my view of this situation. Is it not familiar, Derek? You let a stranger into your home, you decide, for reasons beyond the comprehension of any being with two brain cells, to trust them, and then everything falls apart around you. We’re already on act two of that little plan, and I’d really rather not hit the third. So tell me, where have I heard that one before?”_

_Derek slams his book shut and sets it down, standing up and crossing his arms._

_“Shut. Up.”_

_“You haven’t even had him fingerprinted yet,” Peter snaps. “I leave the house for a few hours, and I come back to hear that we’re all going out to give our strange, werewolf-hating guest some privacy. Privacy to do what, Derek? Decide to poke around and find the best way to take us out? Why don’t we just leave him some mountain ash and wolfsbane while we’re at it? Or maybe you can light the match."_

_Derek feels himself fill with silent fury. Only for the sake of not deepening the argument does he not point out that Peter is the one who wanted to shake the guy down for information, so if anyone has anyone to be worried about, it’s probably not Peter about Stiles._

_“The deputy is coming by to do it tomorrow, and Stiles is not going to_ take us out _. Mom used to take people in once in a while, and I’m sure they all had the potential to be a hell of a lot more threatening than some bed-ridden twenty-year-old.”_

_“And I can’t think of a_ single _reason I would trust Talia’s judgement of character better than yours, Derek.”_

_“Get out.”_

_Peter's laugh is bitter and knowing._

_“As long as I don’t have to be home, fine._ I _don’t make the same mistake twice.”_

 

The longer Derek sits here, the more rational Peter sounds. And when Peter starts to sound rational, you know you have a problem.

 

Derek stares glumly at the basement door, closed but not locked, and then to the wall, where a layer of bricks conceals a network of secret tunnels. Even if Stiles somehow managed to get out of bed and decided, for whatever ridiculous reason, that he wanted Derek dead, _and_ if he were a big enough idiot to try it, Derek could easily rip the door off its hinges, or head through a tunnel. Then he chastises himself for how stupid he is to consider needing to do that, even as a fleeting thought. It would be a stupidly elaborate charade, if Stiles were secretly a hunter or something. Besides, Kate wasn’t secretly a hunter, she was secretly a murderer. It’s not an _actual_ concern, or Derek wouldn’t be sitting here at all—it’s just a crazy thought Peter had planted in the back of his mind, and he can’t exactly stop it from niggling around.

 

He thinks of the fear in Stiles’ eyes every time he sees him, and he knows, some deep, instinctive part of him _knows_ , that Stiles is a good person.

 

He hopes it’s not the same part of him that fell in love with Kate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I was wrong. This is a _three_ part chapter. But I think you guys will forgive me on the basis that this one is twice as long as normal;)

Melissa looks angry, if anything. There’s a fiery protectiveness in her eyes, like she’s incensed that anyone would threaten Stiles or Scott like that. She doesn’t seem concerned, or afraid, or upset for herself. Scott, on the other hand, is expressing enough of that for the both of them. Melissa gently wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and it looks like it’s taking Scott some serious willpower not to bury his face in her neck.

 

“Maybe we should take a little break,” John suggests, looking worriedly among them all.

 

“I’m fine,” Melissa says. “Let’s not drag it out any longer than we have to.” Her eyes turn softer as she looks to Stiles. “Thank you, sweetie, that was really brave. Your mother would be so proud of you. Are you alright to keep going, or do you want to take a little break?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, you’re right, we should get it all over with. But you don’t need to, you know… you don’t have to thank me...” he trails off, uncomfortable. How could he _not_ protect her? She’s the closest thing he’s got to a mother, and he’s not going to lose a second one, or let Scott lose his.  

 

“I already did,” Melissa says firmly. “And if went another way, no one would blame you. You know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs.

 

_Because there would be no one around to blame me._

 

“Yeah, Stiles,” Scott says quietly. “I- thank you.”

 

His voice is so small and broken, and it’s hard for Stiles to imagine how he’s feeling. Knowing Scott, he’s probably torn between relief that his mother is safe, and guilt that Stiles had to get hurt to protect her. He’s always had a bit of a hero complex—something forced upon him by circumstance—and now he’s prone to feeling that it’s his job to protect everyone. Sometimes, Stiles doesn’t know how Scott’s still just barely an adult, with the weight he puts on himself. It’s not his fault that he was bitten that night, or that he became a true alpha, or that there are horrible people out there desperate to take advantage of that. Yet here he is, someone so pure-hearted that he was able to rise to alpha status through sheer worthiness, feeling guilty for the cruelty of others.

 

And here Stiles is, unable to voice that any other way than with an equally soft, “Yeah, buddy, of course. You’d do it for me.”

 

Scott sniffs and nods, and John claps a hand on his knee.

 

“So,” Stiles says through as exhale. “Let’s keep going.”

 

* * *

 

He tells the next part of his story carefully, giving only the important details, not needing them to worry any more than they already are. Still, he can’t stop the scenes from replaying in his head, a Technicolor broadcast of every second of terror.

 

_“That’s what I thought,” Twin One says, as Stiles purposefully clamps his mouth shut. “I’ll do you a favor, since you’re being so cooperative.”_

_He puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ head, the other still locked around his throat, and in a quick, almost graceful move, bashes Stiles’ left temple into the back of the car. His vision goes blurry, and he has to grind his teeth to keep from crying out._

_“That should help you keep quiet,” Twin One says._

_With his now-free hand, he swings the trunk open, and hefts Stiles inside as though he doesn’t weigh more than ten pounds. Stiles vainly kicks a leg out, but with the way his head is spinning, he misses by a good six inches, eliciting nothing but laughter from his captor._

_“Hurry it up,” Twin Two calls from the driver’s seat. “I’d like to get to bed sometime tonight!”_

_Twin One has produces a roll of duct tape from his jacket and unwraps the end. He pins both of Stiles’ ankles single-handedly, and wraps the roll around and around, all the way up to his knees. Stiles struggles as much as he can, but most of his energy is going into keeping himself from blacking out._

_“You know, I like a good fight,” Twin One muses. “But this is just sad.”_

_He leans into the car and jams one elbow into Stiles’ back, forcing the air out of his lungs. “Gotta get a better angle,” he informs casually, wresting Stiles’ arms out from under him, and binding his wrists, too._

_“Fuck off,” Stiles slurs._

_Twin One smirks, tearing off another strip of tape and pressing it over Stiles’ mouth._

_“There,” he says decisively. “And now…”_

_He grabs Stiles’ head again and smashes him face-first into the floor of the car, with strength that’s certainly not human. Stiles sees stars as the man pulls away. He stares down at him for a moment or two before he seems satisfied, then reaches to close the trunk. Darkness overtakes Stiles before it’s even shut._

* * *

 

_When he wakes, he’s no longer curled up on his side, but standing up. It takes him a minute to fully come to, and to process his surroundings._

_His wrists are chained to the wall at shoulder level, holding him up. The room he’s in is partly furnished, like an unfinished basement. There’s a lamp giving off a dim glow, sitting on a coffee table opposite him. There’s an old couch and armchair to the left side, a box in the far right corner, and a staircase in the middle of the back wall._

Is he in someone’s house?

_Almost as soon as he notices it, the door at the top of the stairs opens. Light pours into the room, and for a moment all Stiles can make out is the dark silhouette of a person at the top landing. Slowly, the figure turns and shuts the door, and there’s a soft sound on the stairs. It takes Stiles a moment to work out that it’s a white cane, and that its user—a brunette man in darkened glasses, he can now tell—is blind._

_He makes a muffled noise, since despite the removal of his other bindings, his mouth is still firmly shut._

_“Hello,” the man says lightly. “You’re awake, then.”_

_Stiles makes another muted grunt, something that he hopes manages to convey, “Who are you? A beta? A hunter?”_

_As though reading his thoughts, the man smiles. “Ah, of course. Introductions. How rude of me. My name’s Deucalion. Now if you could tell me a bit about yourself, that would be most helpful.”_

_Deucalion approaches slowly, and when he’s near enough he reaches out, easily making contact with the tape on Stiles’ mouth, and winces with sympathy-pain as he pulls it off._

_Stiles decides pretty easily that the man isn’t a werewolf. He’s blind, for starters, and how common can that be? Besides, he doesn’t seem nearly as malicious as the other two. But then, who is he?_

_“Are you a hunter?” Stiles asks, as soon as the tape is gone._

_Retired, maybe. That would explain the chains in what would be an otherwise comfortable living space._

_Deucalion looks at him thoughtfully, as though it’s a very complex question, not a simple yes or no._

_“Yes, I suppose you could call me a hunter,” he says finally. “Though it’s all about perspective.”_

_“What am I doing here? Did you see those guys I was with? Did you catch them?”_

_“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about those two for a while.”_

_“Oh, thank god,” Stiles says, sagging against the wall. The wall, of course, brings the issue that he’s still chained to it to mind. “But why am I here? Oh my god, you don’t think I’m his beta, do you? That guy was_ not _my alpha—I’m not even a werewolf. And I’m not part of their little kidnapping duo or whatever the hell that was, either. You can call my dad if you want, he’s the sheriff, he’ll straighten this out. He’s going to kill those guys though, oh man.”_

_“Don’t worry, we know you’re not a criminal. And like I said, you needn’t worry about the boys. They’re already in quite a bit of trouble.”_

_Stiles can feel the relief flood his system, and he’s about to ask more questions—first and foremost, about being let go—when Deucalion smiles at him._

_“Unfortunately, Mr. Stilinski,” he continues, slowly reaching a hand up to tilt down his glasses, revealing blazing red eyes underneath. “So are you.”_

* * *

 

_Stiles immediately starts tugging at the chains, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not going anywhere anytime soon._

_“Is there a problem?” Deucalion asks innocently._

_“You killed him,” Stiles says, trying not to panic._

_Deucalion chuckles, low and menacing._

_“Ethan?” he asks. “Or Aiden? Are you really concerned for either of them, anyway?”_

_“Y-you killed him. You- your eyes, you-”_

_“Oh, I see,” Deucalion says. “Funny you should mention it.” He turns toward the stairs, even though the door is closed, and calls, “Ethan? Aiden? Could you come down here for a moment, please?”_

_There’s a deafening silence for a few seconds before the door opens again, and two men come down the stairs. When they step into the light, Stiles recognizes them as Twin One and Twin Two—Ethan and Aiden. Or Aiden and Ethan. He can’t really tell them apart._

_Each twin bears a thin line across his left check, not dripping blood but not healing, either._

_“Mr. Stilinski here was concerned for your well-being. I wanted to assure him that you two were in perfect health, if a little on my bad side.” He turns to Stiles, pointing a finger at him. “But don’t you worry, Stiles. I wasn’t too pleased to hear they showed off our… abilities, before we got you home, but I think the boys have learned their lesson. It’s hard to stay mad at pack.”_

_“But-” Stiles starts, completely thrown. If these wolves are a pack, and Twin Two—Aiden?—had flashed alpha eyes, and now Deucalion is the alpha, and Aiden isn’t dead… what’s going on?_

_“I think I understand your problem,” Deucalion says. “Ethan, Aiden; shift.”_

_The twins share a look of satisfaction as together their eyes bleed red._

_Suddenly Stiles is having trouble staying upright, head spinning as he tries to understand._

_“Now, I see why you might be confused,” Deucalion says, voice heavy with false sympathy. “It’s not every day you’re an alpha pack’s hostage. But it’s every day from now on.”_

* * *

 

_No one comes downstairs for what must be eight hours—it’s been a whole night. The worst part is that despite how long it’s been, no one’s probably even noticed his absence yet. His father usually goes straight to bed after his night shift, and he might decide to let Stiles sleep late. If that’s the case, no one will even know he’s gone till at least five o’clock today, and even then, his father might think he’s out with Scott, and Scott might think he’s hanging out at home with his father. So really, no one might notice he’s even gone till sometime tonight. Shit._

_When the door finally opens again, it’s a woman, trailed by one of the twins. She’s barefoot, which Stiles finds a little odd, but it’s not exactly the biggest of his concerns._

_“Hello,” she says pleasantly. “Aiden and I thought we’d pay a little visit.”_

_Stiles stares at her stoically, trying to get a read on what she’s planning._

_“Not much of a talker, hmm?”_

_“Oh, he is,” Aiden says, eyes glinting with cold delight. “You should’ve heard the little bitch when we first caught him. ‘Oh, hey, whoa, let’s work something out! No one has to get hurt. My daddy’s a police officer, he’s- he’s gonna arrest you!’ Just gotta get him scared first.”_

_The woman smirks._

_“Well, that can be arranged.”_

_She takes slow, deliberate steps forward, toenails extending into gnarled claws, and what should be ridiculous is somehow horribly ominous. When she’s right up in Stiles’ face, she runs a gentle hand down his arm till she reaches the cuff._

_Aiden crosses the room to plop himself down on the couch, pulling out his phone, and Stiles is once again perturbed by how confident these people all seem. When the woman reaches his hand, she takes it in hers and extends a claw, picking the lock with ease. Stiles stares in bewilderment as she lets his hand go and reaches for the other, trying to decide exactly how bad an idea it would be for him to take a swing at her._

_She unlocks his other hand and releases that, too, stepping back and reaching for something in her pocket. Stiles is very, very aware of how stupid it is, but it’d be even stupider if he didn’t bother seizing the opportunity. He dodges to the left and takes off running towards the open door. Aiden is up and in front of him before he makes it five steps. Still, he’s nothing if not persistent—Stiles slides to the left again and ducks under Aiden’s arm; apparently alpha instincts don’t work well with over-confidence. Now though, Stiles is off to the side, and he needs to make it halfway across the room. The woman runs at him, and now he’s sure that it’s only due to sheer terror and adrenaline that he’s not back in chains already. He winds his fist back, and there’s a sickening crunch as it connects with her face. She reels backwards for a moment, growling, though Stiles is moving again without stopping to check. Aiden, who’d frozen in shock for a moment at seeing what must be one of his betas hurt, snaps back to life as Stiles whips by. He grabs Stiles’ ankle at the same time that the woman pounces on him, and sends them both crashing to the ground. Stiles’ head cracks into the stairs, and he barely has the fluidity of mind to hope that his head didn’t_ actually _crack._

_“Nowhere to go, little human,” the woman goads._

_She says ‘human’ like it’s the worst curse fathomable._

_“Such a_ shame _,” Aiden chimes in._

_Stiles would point out that at least the woman had taken a punch to the face before she caught him, and that Aiden had literally just been sidestepped, but he’s probably not in the best position to do that._

_“You put up a good fight,” the woman goes on. “We admire that.”_

_She stands, dragging him back down the stairs, then wedges a foot under his body, carelessly flipping him onto his stomach._

_“You’d make an excellent beta,” Aiden laughs. “Pretty feisty, for just a little human, huh, Kali?”_

_“Oh, I think so,” she says, crouching down till her face is right in Stiles’. “Too bad we don’t need one.”_

_Her eyes, still boring into his, melt from dark brown into a bright, powerful red._

_Stiles could almost laugh—Deucalion wasn’t kidding when he called them an alpha pack. Of course. Why the absolute fuck not?_

_“Don’t worry though—Stiles, is it?” she continues. “We’re not going to kill you. Yet. We want Deucalion to have his fun, first.”_

_Aiden grins down at him, planting a swift kick to his ribs before he walks over and grabs the box from the corner, depositing it next to Kali._

_“Do you want me to stay?” he asks._

_Kali takes a deep whiff of the air, and shrugs._

_“I think breakfast ready. You should eat before we get on the road. I don’t think Stiles here will be getting any more bright ideas for a while, anyway.”_

_Aiden stares at Stiles, who’s limp from the pain at this point._

_“You know,” he decides, planting an army boot on Stiles’ back, as if he were going anywhere. “I do like a good show before I eat.”_

_Kali opens the box, and Stiles catches a glimpse of a strange symbol on the inside lid. It’s a triangle, with a thick line protruding diagonally from each angle that takes a sharp turn when it reaches the length of the adjacent angle, then cuts off._

_From the box, Kali pulls a length of rope, and yanks up the bottoms of his pant legs. Stiles winces, thinking about how badly it’s going to chafe. She grabs his wrists next, any former pretense of gentleness gone. She shoves them behind his back, tying them together. She nudges Aiden’s foot till he shifts a little, then yanks his wrists back and his feet forward till they stretch painfully to meet over his back, then threads another piece of rope through the others to hold them together. She rips the tape off his mouth, and he inhales sharply. Aiden leans over and digs into the box, grabbing two dirty-looking rags and handing them to her. She smiles and folds the cloths into strips, then forces Stiles’ mouth open and shoves one inside, yanking it back tightly. He gags, spit dribbling down his chin as she ties a tight knot around the back of his head. She folds the other one, too, and that goes over his eyes, blocking out the little light down here._

_“There we go,” she purrs, stroking a hand through his hair. Stiles knows it’s just to make him shudder, and makes a point of jerking away._

_Kali stands, and he can hear her brushing off her hands as though she’d just finished a tough job—true—or touched something very unpleasant—fuck her. Aiden digs his heel a little deeper for good measure, then steps away, both of them heading up the stairs. Stiles squirms vigorously, all the while trying to decide if his head is bleeding._

_“Don’t you worry, Stiles,” Kali calls over her shoulder. “If you cooperate you’ll be just fine. In the meantime, I’d try not to move too much--I hear rope burn is really a bitch.”_

* * *

 

_An hour later, Stiles is still lying in the same position, head throbbing and muscles aching too hard to even think about doing anything. He wonders at what point they’ll give him a concussion._

_Someone enters the room without preamble, easily picking him up and hefting him over their shoulder. Stiles groans in protest, but of course, the person utterly ignores him. He feels them go up the stairs and make a few turns, then his weight is shifted and he can hear the sound of a key in a lock. They’re leaving this place, wherever they are. God, he really hopes they don’t go too far._

_The air outside is cool and breezy, and it feels good on his aching body. He’s shifted again, and there’s the sound of a door opening, maybe the back part of a van. He’s dumped inside, banging his elbow into the floor. Someone with rough hands grabs his shoulder, as if he needs to be held down right now, anyway, and something sharp pricks his arm. The door is shut, leaving Stiles to flip out over whatever drug they just injected him with. He doesn’t have to worry long, though, because within a minute he can feel himself getting more and more tired. He could just… close his eyes… for a minute…….._

* * *

 

“We ended up at some other house I guess, and they threw me in the basement there too, and then it was pretty much two months of… you know. Yeah.”

 

“And you said,” John says carefully, “it had something to do with Scott?”

 

Stiles sucks in a breath, looking down at his feet instead of at the camera when he answers.

 

“Yeah. They knew he was a true alpha, somehow. They had some plan for like, becoming all-powerful or whatever. They’re just a bunch of psychos, in way over their heads. They thought people would want to follow him or something, and that I could give them information. It was stupid; not your fault, Scotty.”

 

“Not my fault?” Scott asks. His eyes are red and puffy, and it kills Stiles that he can’t reach through the phone and hug him. “How is that not my fault? They wanted me, and they took you instead. They threatened to take my mom, last night you said they threatened your dad. How is that- they wanted _me_. They wanted _me_ , and they hurt _you_.”

 

“Scott, it’s- I’m fine, okay? I wouldn’t have put you in my place if I could.”

 

“But _I_ would. I can heal, Stiles,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”

 

“Scott, that’s not what it was about. If you were there, they would’ve amped up electricity or pumped you full of wolfsbane and made sure you couldn’t. It wasn’t only about information. They were sadistic, okay? They liked it. They probably would’ve liked having you even more, because they could’ve done more and not had to worry about you being able to take it. They were having _fun_. It wouldn’t have mattered if I told them everything about you starting the day you were born, because they were _enjoying_ themselves. If you never existed, they probably still would’ve kidnapped somebody, because they were evil. You _can’t_ feel guilty, dude. I forbid you, remember?" That, at least, gets a small smile from Scott. "I can’t handle my best friend feeling like any of this shit is remotely his fault. So don’t, okay? ‘Cause it’s not. I promise it’s not. Alright?”

 

Scott looks at him for a long moment, before finally murmuring, “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

John asked Melissa and Scott for a few minutes alone with Stiles before they all say goodbye, and here they are.

 

“So, Stiles,” John says slowly. “Are you okay?”

 

His father had interrupted his story a few times, asking him to send a sketch of the alphas’ symbol later, or to describe them, but this is a new kind of question, the kind that he’s really not ready for.

 

“I mean,” Stiles says, shrugging, “I’m pretty banged up. What I said last night and whatever, that’s mostly the kind of things they did. I’m not really up for going into too much detail on it.”

 

“Of course,” John says, nodding. “I still want to talk to that doctor. But Stiles… emotionally. How’re you holding up?”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m… you know…”

 

_I had a panic attack last night, I’ve been screaming bloody murder since I got here, I can’t stand to be around all these people who’re being ridiculously nice to me, just because they’re werewolves._

 

“I’m doing alright.”

 

“That’s good,” John says, clearly disbelieving but not wanting to push it, either.

 

“I’m uh, kinda freaked out by werewolves at the moment,” he offers, because he doesn’t want his dad to feel like he can’t talk to him.

 

“That’s to be expected,” John sighs. “Is that house upsetting you? Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there?”

 

“It’s fine, Dad. They’re, like, crazily respectful of my boundaries. I don’t think you’re gonna need to shoot Derek anytime soon.”

 

“Good,” John says. “We’ve got enough alphas on our plate.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “You know…” he pauses, trailing off.

 

“What?” John prompts. “You can tell me anything, Stiles.”

 

“I know. It’s just- it sounds stupid, but I think I’m really upsetting Scott. I think he thinks I’m afraid of him.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Well… not in theory, no. But if I saw him in person, I mean… he’s a werewolf, you know? And an alpha. I’m not exactly letting the wolves over here anywhere near me right now, but Scott’s, you know, _Scott_. He’s my best friend, how can I be afraid of him?”

 

John hums pensively.

 

“Well, I would say if Scott is upset that you’re afraid of him, it’s understandable. But it’s even more understandable that you _are_ afraid of him. You went through a lot, Stiles. You’re not going to want to be around something you associate with bad memories for a while, and that’s fine. But you and Scott will be okay again eventually.”

 

“How do you know?” Stiles asks morosely, because it all sounds nice and good and fine, except how can he be sure he’ll ever get over it? There doesn’t seem to be much light at the end of the tunnel, at the moment.

 

“Because he’s Scott,” his father says simply. “And you’re Stiles. Trust me, Melissa and I couldn’t even get you two to come home from playdates when you were kids. You think some asshole alphas are gonna break up that friendship? No way, kiddo. You guys are stuck with each other for life.”

 

“Thanks, Dad,” he sighs.

 

“’Course, Stiles. By the time you actually let us down there, or we get you up here, you guys’ll be dying to see each other.”

 

“And I’ll be dying to see you.”

 

John smiles fondly.

 

“I’m already dying for you. So tell that Derek guy to hurry up with all this, and to give me a call, got it?”

 

“Got it.”

 

“Good. Love you, Stiles.”

 

“Love you, Dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things!
> 
> Do you guys like extended flashbacks like this? Obviously they won't always be as long as this one, but is this something you guys are into? I think it's definitely more interesting for all of us to have them this way most of the time rather than recounted in dialogue, but lemme know!
> 
> We're gonna find out what's up with Peter in Derek in part three! 
> 
> And as always, I'd love to hear what you thought! Hope you guys enjoyed this long one:)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of our three part chapter!  
> Also, even (actually, especially) if you don't like Peter in canon, I'm going to ask you to please go into this chapter with an open mind; they've all been through a _lot_.

“Okay,” Cora says, flopping down on Derek’s bed. “ _What_ is going on?”

 

“Have any of you ever heard of knocking?” he huffs, turning to glare at her from his computer chair.

 

“I’m your sister. There’s no such thing as privacy,” she shrugs, then rearranges herself so her top half is hanging upside-down off the bed, hair sweeping the floor. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

 

“Nothing’s going on. Stiles called his dad, the deputy took his prints, you guys came home, and the baseball game comes on in an hour. Same old, same old.”

 

“Good answer, wrong question. What’s going on with you and Peter?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“ _Nothing_ ,” she repeats dubiously. “Nothing at all?”

 

“No,” he grumbles. “Why, did he say something was going on?”

 

“Yeah Der, he passed Boyd a note in math class.”

 

Derek glares harder.

 

“You guys are such ten-year-old girls,” Cora sighs. “Why can’t you work out your problems like adults?”

 

“I just told you we don’t have a problem.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Then how come,” she asks, flipping back over to lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. “Peter was acting so off at the mall?”

 

“Off?”

 

“Off. Like, didn’t tell Erica her lipstick doesn’t match her skin tone, didn’t tell Boyd he should consider wearing scarves, didn’t tell Isaac he should _stop_ wearing scarves, and didn’t tell me denim jackets were more my style than leather ones a _single_ time. So clearly, he’s having an off day. And you, my bro, spent the day holed up in a basement. Now I don’t know about you, but something tells me my two favorite big bad wolves had a cat fight. So what’s up?”

 

“We had a small disagreement before you left the house,” Derek admits reluctantly.

 

“So, a fight.”

 

“A disagreement.”

 

“And I’m guessing it wasn’t over who left their dirty underwear on the floor.”

 

“Not exactly,” he sighs.

 

“Which means?”

 

“You know, not everything is your business.”

 

“Was it about Stiles?”

 

Derek tiredly drags a hand over his face before getting up to shut the door.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cora says as he sits back down. “Seriously. What’s up?”

 

“Peter thinks we have another Kate situation on our hands.”

 

“Oh,” Cora says quietly, much more serious now.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well…does he have a reason to think that? Did something happen?” she asks worriedly.

 

“Of course not. He’s just being paranoid.”

 

“Was he upset, or was he being a jerk about it?”

 

“Try ‘I don’t make the same mistake twice’ and ‘maybe you can light the match’.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“ _Yeah_.”

 

“You know I don’t blame you for that,” Cora says.

 

They’ve been over it a million times, but Derek still can’t find the truth in the words. _You were young and vulnerable, she was beautiful and manipulative. It’s not your fault._ First Paige, then Kate. How far can the young and stupid excuse stretch?

 

“I know,” Derek says, because trying to thank her for the reminder would only turn into something horribly awkward. “But Peter does. And it makes sense.”

 

“He doesn’t have to be an asshole about it.”

 

“But he has the right to.”

 

“He doesn’t have the right to do anything. We’re family. And pack. We settled this years ago.”

 

She gets up and heads out the door, leaving it open behind her in a clear indication of _I’ll be back_.

 

Cora returns within three minutes, pulling Peter by the arm, though Derek knows very well if he didn’t want to be here at least a little bit, he wouldn’t be.

 

She sits back on the bed, legs crossed over the edge this time, and Peter leans against the wall next to it, arms across his chest.

 

“What’s your problem?” she demands once they’re both situated.

 

“My problem is sitting right next door,” Peter drawls.

 

“Oh, screw that. We don’t go dragging up each other’s shit all this time later. If you want to talk about it, have a frickin’ adult conversation without shoving guilt on Derek and then leaving.”

 

“Cora, don’t-” Derek starts. His little sister shouldn’t have to deal with any of this, not for him.

 

“No,” she interrupts, jabbing a finger in his direction. “We’re settling this right now, because I’m not sitting through the rest of the night, or the week, or the _year_ , with you idiots glowering at each other, and someone being smug or some shit because they were right. So let’s go. Peter, with as little spite as you can manage, what’s your actual problem?”

 

Peter leers.

 

“My problem is _Stiles_. Our version of a background check was looking him up online. No one’s going to post about their murderous tendencies on Instagram. We’re all leaving the house to give him his space, but God only knows what he’s up to. He hates us. I’ve dealt with enough werewolf prejudice in my time; I don’t need it in my own home, and I certainly don’t need it from some random kid who’s _probably_ not a murderer.”

 

“I had Deputy Graeme come down a day early to check his fingerprints,” Derek says. “She’s running them through the computer tonight. Tomorrow there’ll be nothing to worry about.”

 

“And you called her in early because you have a deep-seated respect for my opinions? Or because you’re afraid I’m right?”

 

“You know what? That’s not fair,” Cora says. “Derek is trying his best. None of us are equipped for this, but we’re handling it. You’re just being paranoid.”

 

“It’s only paranoia when you’re wrong.”

 

“He made a mistake one time,” she growls. “We get it, okay? We _know_. It was a really big mistake, but that’s what it was, and you’re not the only one who lost everything. I was a fucking child, Peter! But you can’t live your life thinking the whole world is out to get you! We don’t want you to live like that. So if you’re afraid of something just come out and say it, don’t throw around Derek’s teenage mistakes till everyone’s too busy to notice you’re scared.”

 

“We can’t afford another mistake like that,” Peter retorts. “From a beta? It was bad enough. But an alpha? He’s supposed to be responsible.”

 

“Peter,” Derek tries, but somehow he’s been shut out of this conversation.

 

“Oh my God, _you’re_ going to talk about alphas versus betas? Really? Because you haven’t made your share of-” her voice catches, “ _mistakes_? Our family is screwed up, okay? But if we go dredging up everyone’s past to make a point, things are never going to get better. The only reason any of us are still sane is because we’re trying to forgive and forget.”

 

Peter sobers considerably at the thought of Laura.

 

“Cora, stop it,” Derek says. “Just- stop. He wasn’t in his right mind.”

 

“I _know_ that,” Cora says. “And you know that. And that’s why we don’t go bringing it up all the time. You just came out of a six year coma, you hadn’t been able to shift in forever, you were bloodthirsty and power-hungry, and Laura- Laura was the easiest way. And you know what? It makes me want to throw up even saying that, that you killing my sister, your _niece_ , was the easiest way to make yourself an alpha, and that’s not too _responsible,_ either, if you ask me. But you weren’t in your right mind, and you never would’ve done it before, and you would never do it now, so we let. it. _go_.”

 

Peter’s eyes blaze blue and one hand ghosts over the right side of his face, and Derek can’t tell if it’s voluntary.

 

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Derek says slowly. Talking about his feelings, about the fire, about his family, is so not his thing, but he has to try. They’ve left it alone long enough, and they all knew it had to come to a head at some point. “I don’t- I haven’t forgiven myself, and I’m not asking you to, either. You got hurt, and everyone else- everyone else...”

 

“Died,” Peter huffs. “I was the _lucky_ one.”

 

Derek is silent for a moment, just staring at Peter, who stares back, eyes cold again.

 

“You know what?” he finally snaps, shoving himself up from his chair and taking a step closer before abruptly stopping himself. “Yeah. You’re right, Peter. They _died_. I got my whole fucking family killed, except you, who I put through third degree burns and a coma, and my sisters, one of whom we didn’t even know was alive for _years_ , and the other who died before they could be reunited. So I lost people. I made myself lose people, and I made _you_ lose people, and I’m sorry. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Fine. I’m sorry.” He stops, forces himself to swallow. His fangs have come down, and he takes a few deep breaths, reigning himself back in. When he continues, it’s calmer. Softer. “But throwing it in my face all the time isn’t going to make things better; it’s going to drive the little bit of family we still have apart. Cora’s right, if we don’t try to move on, we’re never going to be okay. I will- I will never forgive myself for Kate, and I’m not asking you to, either. But I’m asking you to give me another chance here. If you’re right about Stiles, fine, you can rub it in my face and I’ll be sorry for that, too. But he’s barely an adult. He’s terrified, and broken, and hurt. He couldn’t get out of that bed even if he wanted to. This is an opportunity to _help_ someone. That’s what Mom would do, and I-”

 

Derek’s phone cuts him off, pitching the room into a deafening silence that’s only interrupted by the cheery ringtone every few seconds. He pulls it from his pocket and checks the caller ID, then turns it to Peter and Cora.

 

Peter’s mouth is pulled into a grim line, and he waves his hand as if to say, _go on, answer it_.

 

Derek does, mouth dry as he lifts the phone to his ear, well aware that Peter and Cora will be listening in.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Alpha,” Deputy Graeme greets.

 

She sounds amiable enough, but that could easily be a front to stop things from looking so bad.

 

“Did you run his prints?”

 

“Yup. Called the sheriff’s station John Stilinski’s supposed to work at too.”

 

“And?”

 

“As far as we can tell, he has no connection to any hunter groups, and his father really is a sheriff over in NYC.”

 

“But the prints?”

 

“Those check out too. No criminal record, Alpha. His slate’s clean as a whistle.”

 

“That’s good to hear,” Derek says, shoulders practically sagging in relief. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

 

“No problem,” she says. “I’ve gotta get back to my paperwork, if that’s all?”

 

“Yeah, Tara. Bye.”

 

He hangs up, pocketing the phone.

 

“I’ll assume you heard that?”

 

Peter nods thoughtfully.

 

“Well. Looks like I really am just the paranoid, senile uncle after all. I think I’ll get back to making dinner now, if we’re done here.”

 

“Peter, wait,” Derek says, raising an arm halfheartedly.

 

The yelling was a good thing—they all blew off some major steam, things they’ve kept bottled up for years. If they can just accept what the others said, try to understand and move past it… they could really feel like family again.

 

Peter stops, hand tight around the doorknob, and turns to him, and Derek realizes he really has nothing to say. He just wants them to finally be okay. 

 

“Do you need help making dinner?” is what somehow comes out.

 

Peter looks him over appraisingly for a moment, and Derek tries to look as neutral as possible. 

 

“Yes,” Peter says finally. “I’d appreciate a hand.” His eyes flick over to Cora, who’s still sitting on the bed. “You too?” he asks.

 

Derek knows she’s still angry, and she looks surprised for a moment before her face softens a little at the offer.

 

“Yeah, sure,” she says, standing. “We better be making something awesome, if there’s three of us.”

 

“I was thinking vegetable lasagna,” Peter says, stepping into the hallway.

 

It was Talia’s favorite.

 

Derek knows it’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!


	21. Chapter 21

When Peter walks into his room the next morning, Stiles is a bit wary, to say the least.

 

He knows he’s overreacting to things right now, but still, the image of Peter glaring at him yesterday is fresh in his mind. Hours after that, when the pack had all returned home, someone had gone into Derek’s room and closed the door (for the _second_ time in one day), gone back out, and come back with another person, shutting the door again. There was some sort of shouting match that had him gripping his sheets a little tightly, even if he couldn’t make out what was being said, only that the voices belonged to Peter, Cora, and Derek. Things seemed to calm down pretty quickly though, and by the time they left the room, Stiles heard Peter talking, of all things, about making lasagna.

 

After that the night had gone relatively smoothly, with Deaton calling to tell him he’d talked to Stiles’ mother—Stiles had had to awkwardly correct him that Melissa was actually Scott’s mother—who was, ‘as a nurse, very concerned for his health’, and that he’d be coming over the next day to take urine and blood samples and do all kinds of other fun things. He’d also told Stiles that it was okay for him to shower now without upsetting his stitches, as long as he was careful, and considering how rank Stiles was starting to smell, he couldn’t be terribly bothered by the rest of the news. Boyd had later brought him dinner, and Stiles had, surprisingly, drifted pretty easily to sleep.

 

Now, though, Peter is standing in his doorway, hands gripping a tray just a tad too firmly, and Stiles can’t say it doesn’t make him a little uneasy.

 

That is, until he steps a little farther into the room.

 

The tray is holding two cinnamon rolls, and they look torturously good.  

 

“Dude, those smell _amazing_ ,” Stiles says, if somewhat tentatively.

 

Peter fixes him with a look, but it’s not necessarily unfriendly. Well, it’s not necessarily friendly, either, but still. He’ll settle for a slightly judgmental middle-ground.

 

“ _Dude_?”

 

Technically, Peter is an elder and part of an important, influential, governmental family, but just about everyone is dude to Stiles.

 

“Uh, bro? Man? Heavensent bearer of cinnamon-y goodness?”

 

“I’ll settle for the last one,” Peter says thoughtfully. “Compliments to the chef and all that.”

 

“ _You_ made these?”

 

“Should I be insulted?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow in a very Derek-like manner.

 

Oops. Well, it’s not like Peter had shown any particular interest in him before this moment. He’d actually been showing a distinct lack of interest, like Stiles was inconveniencing him by existing. Which, alright, technically Stiles was, but still; not cool. And if Peter thinks he can be bought by _cinnamon rolls_? Well… okay, he might not be _too_ far off the mark…

 

“No way. Insulted means you’re going to leave without feeding me, and it’s,” he pauses, checking his phone, “already eleven.”

 

“You slept late,” Peter remarks.

 

Stiles can’t tell if he’s trying to spark up a conversation, or if he’s just thoroughly enjoying watching Stiles salivate. Maybe it’s both.

 

“I’m tired,” Stiles says, shrugging. “And hungry.”

 

Peter takes the none-too-subtle hint and sets the tray on the foot of his bed.

 

“I frickin’ love these things,” Stiles adds, trying, as usual, not to be embarrassed as Peter watches him struggle to sit up.

 

“I know,” Peter says. “We background-checked your social media accounts to make sure you didn’t plan on murdering us in our beds. There were no less than six pictures of cinnamon rolls.”

 

“Oh. That’s uh… nice? Did ya find anything interesting? Am I secretly a criminal mastermind?”

 

“No,” Peter says. “But you wear entirely too much plaid.”

 

Stiles scoffs, but before he can defend himself—if there even is a defense… he _does_ wear a lot of plaid—Peter continues, “I think I’d better get back to the kitchen if I want to get anything myself. Those kids are ravenous.”  

 

“Cool,” Stiles says, then moans delightedly as he takes a bite of one of the rolls. “Thanks, du- Peter. See ya around. These are great, by the way. Like, damn.”

 

Peter looks at him curiously for a moment longer, then gives what Stiles supposes would be a smile, if it were a little less tight. “I know,” he says, closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

“How’d that go?” Derek asks, sitting at the kitchen table and filling out some paperwork the police station had sent him.

 

“Like you weren’t listening in,” Peter says, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter.

 

“Well then, it went well,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

Honestly, he’s kind of proud of Peter. That talk last night had done far more good than Derek could’ve ever expected, even if it just means Peter being a little less inimical. To Derek’s knowledge, the rest of the pack isn’t aware of what happened, or at least no one’s said anything, and it’s unlikely they’ve even noticed the slight change in demeanor yet, though he’s sure they will over time.

 

The two of them sit in a relatively companionable silence for a while, Peter sipping his coffee and Derek trying to remember Stiles’ cellphone number off the top of his head for one of the forms.

 

Finally, Peter says, “So, when are you calling the hunters?”

 

Derek almost chokes on his cinnamon roll.

 

“What?”

 

“The hunters,” Peter says casually, like he hadn’t been fifty kinds of against Stiles, let alone actual hunters, the night before. “When are you calling them?”

 

“How do you know I’m planning to call them?” Derek asks guardedly.

 

“You told Stiles you would if he wanted that first night.”

 

“And he said he’d rather stay here.”

 

“And I’m operating under the assumption that you aren’t so self-confident as to think you can tackle this problem by yourself. Correct? You’d be an idiot to not at least talk to them.”

 

“Where’s this coming from?” Derek asks, because even if Peter is trying to be more cooperative, this certainly wasn’t in the cards. “You’re suddenly okay with hunters?”

 

 _Derek_ isn’t even okay with hunters. In fact, Derek is very, very _against_ hunters, but his talk with Boyd the other night is making him really consider the best way to protect Stiles, and he can barely fill out these papers, let alone catch some alphas. Besides, he would be endangering his entire pack, and quite possibly his territory, by trying to handle this alone, and that’s not something he’s willing to do again.

 

Peter scoffs, picking up a spoon to stir his coffee.

 

“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” he intones. “Now, seeing as I don’t have much by the way of friends, I suppose I have room for a few hunters.”

 

“It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you’d want us to deal with,” Derek points out. “At all.”

 

“Oh, _me_?” Peter asks, feigning surprise. “Definitely not. I’ll be out of the house whenever they come over, and your betas-”

 

“Your pack,” Derek interjects.

 

Peter looks at him for a moment before amending, “The pack can come with me, if they so desire. I don’t care which hunters you go to; I want nothing to do with it either way. It’d be wise to pat them down before you let them inside, I'd suggest bringing a cop, and perhaps a _leave your hats and automatic weapons at the door_ sign would do you some good.”

 

“This still doesn’t sound like you.”

 

“How about, ‘If I don’t give you permission and instructions on how to deal with hunters, you’re going to go behind my back and do it anyway, and probably screw it up, so keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your relatives… on a _leash’_.”

 

“Now that,” Derek says, unable to resist a smirk, “ _that_ sounds like you.”

 

* * *

 

“Hunters?”  Erica asks.

 

Derek’s pretty sure this is about the eleventh time someone has repeated the word in varying degrees of surprise since he brought it up. 

 

“Hunters,” Derek affirms.

 

“Argents?” Isaac asks.

 

That one had only been used about seven times so far.

 

“Argents,” Derek says. “Hunters. Yes. Chris Argent. Daughter Argent. Those hunters. Yes.”

 

The Argents, unlike the Calaveras, are at least familiar territory, and the prosecution against them would be merciless if they actually tried anything against the Hales a second time. Besides, the head of the Calavera family, Araya, was known to be quite brutal in her day.

 

“Allison,” Boyd pipes up, and they all turn to look at him. “She was in my sociology class last year,” he shrugs. “For the record, she seems perfectly nice. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

 

Kate had seemed perfectly nice too, but that’s a slippery slope Derek’s not about to set himself atop right now, because if Peter can make an effort to trust—or, at least, to let Derek deal with—hunters, then Derek ought to be able to, too.

 

“I don’t know her,” Isaac puts in, “but she was really popular in high school. And not the obnoxious kind, either. Like, the was-nice-to-me-before-I-got-the-bite kind, the like, _single_ time I talked to her.”

 

“I’ve never spoken to her,” Erica says. “But she didn’t seem like a bitch. Or a murderer, so. Looks like Ally A’s got A+ ratings.”

 

Collective groans sound around the room, but Erica is uneffected.

 

“Is she a hunter?” Cora asks, because she’d been gone much of their high school career, and Derek can’t see her ever talking to an Argent on her own. “Or just her dad?”

 

“Both,” Isaac says. “I hear she’s had a concealed weapons permit and a hunting license for a while now, and she’s deadly with a bow and arrow.”

 

“Gee, Isaac,” Erica says cheerfully. “That’s encouraging.”

 

“Well,” he says, shifting in his chair. “Not _deadly_ , deadly. But if you were a dartboard, you probably wouldn’t want to hang around her.”

 

“Alright,” Derek says. “We get it. Nice girl. Deadly. Not to be screwed with. We won’t screw with her. We wouldn’t mess around with any of the Argents, anyway.”

 

“You could take her if you had to,” Erica adds, suddenly a little more serious. “If it came down to it.”

 

“Oh, but _I’m_ not encouraging?” Isaac demands.

 

“I’m just saying! She may be a badass, but Derek’s bigger. She’s like, 5’8? But I wouldn’t underestimate her, either.”

 

Derek wonders what his life has come to that he’s sitting in a room full of college kids, seriously debating whether or not he could take on a twenty-one year old girl. Especially considering he doesn’t know the answer.

 

Boyd, who’s apparently on the same relative page, says, “Nothing is gonna come down to anything. Chris was innocent, he wasn’t a fan of Gerard, and he lived by the code. I don’t think we need to be too worried.”

 

“Oh, hey, the code,” Isaac says, “That’s something in their favor too. It was in the papers a few years ago, but she changed her family’s code from ' _nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_ _'_ to ' _nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent se protéger'_.” 

 

“Um, some of us took Spanish,” Cora says. 

 

“It was ‘we hunt those who hunt us’,” he translates, and doesn’t Derek know _that_  version all too well, “and she convinced her father to change it to ‘we protect those who cannot protect themselves’.”

 

Derek heard about the change, because as Alpha, they’d tactfully invited him to the ceremony where’d they updated their family’s ancient code, and Derek had tactfully declined, not even bothering to mention it to the pack.

 

“How sweet,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “Do little birds and bunny rabbits help her get dressed in the morning, too?”

 

“Oh, god,” Derek says running a hand over his face. “Let’s just try to give them a chance.”

 

The Hales giving the Argents a chance. Now, won’t the tabloids love _that_ one?

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says, knocking on the doorframe, since the door’s already open.

 

“Hiya."

 

“How’d things go with Deaton?” 

 

“Oh, it was great,” Stiles says. “Jabbed me with a bunch of needles—injecting things, _and_ taking samples, very exciting. Made me pee in a cup, which is everyone’s favorite activity. Uhh, he gave me a bandaid with kittens on it,” Stiles says, rolling up his left sleeve to show it off in all its adorable glory. “And we did plenty of other enjoyable things.” 

 

“Sounds fun,” Derek agrees.

 

“Yup. But on the bright side, he contacted my doctor and had my prescription transferred, and he brought me these babies,” Stiles says, grabbing the bottle of Adderall and shaking it, leaning in to listen to the sound with reverence that’s only half-joking. “I could’ve kissed him,” he adds, yawning and stretching.

 

“Tired?” Derek asks.

 

“Bored. But on the bright side,” he says, picking up his phone and waggling it at Derek, “I’m on level 134 in Candy Crush.”

 

“Candy what?”

 

“It’s an app,” Stiles sighs, tossing his phone on the bed. “Sadly, being a _delectable desert destroyer_ is not nearly as exciting as it sounds.” 

 

“Oh,” Derek says, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“You oughta be, if you weren’t interrupting my progress, I might be on level 135 by now. But whatcha need? I assume you’re not just here to stare at my pretty face.”

 

The joke was a knee-jerk reaction to Derek’s seriousness, but he hadn’t really thought about how gross his face actually looks right now—not that he’s particularly proud of his face anyway, but he normally looks better than this—and he really doesn’t want to see Derek look at him pityingly.

 

Surprisingly though, Derek smirks.

 

“I was actually going to ask if you’ve got a mirror. I like to look at my own.”

 

Was that a joke? Derek Hale, the oh-so-serious and mighty alpha, had just made a _joke_. Stiles kind of wants to high-five him.

 

To be fair though, Derek does have a pretty face. And, well, a pretty everything. He’s got muscles that Hercules would envy, _browngoldgreen_ eyes, and Cora wasn’t wrong when she said his hair was perfectly styled. Stiles wonders if it counts as progress to ogle over his hot werewolf hosts. Honestly, this house is making him feel a little inadequate. Cora shares many of Derek’s best features, Boyd and Erica belong on a magazine cover for _America’s Top Ten Hottest Couples_ , Isaac’s facial structure is insane, and Peter- well, he’s too old for Stiles to want to consider his hotness at all, but objectively, Stiles can admit he’s a good-looking guy. For Derek to stand out at all in a house full of these people is kind of impressive, but he does. Maybe it's the perks of being an alpha, or maybe Derek's just a lucky guy--definitely luckier than Stiles, in any case. Stiles knows the bite improves everything, from hearing and sight to muscle mass and acne, but damn, he feels bad for any humans who spend all their time around werewolf packs, because that’s quite an image to maintain.

 

“Uh, Stiles?” Derek says, and Stiles gets the feeling he may have called his name more than once.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

“Ah, that sounds like good news.”

 

“It actually is,” Derek says, leaning against the doorframe.  “For the safety of the pack and territory, and to get this resolved as quickly as possible, we’re hiring hunters to look into this case.”

 

“Whoa, seriously?” Stiles asks, genuinely surprised. “You gotta work on your delivery, dude. Next time try a party popper and some banners hanging from the ceiling, if you’ve got news like that.”

 

“You’re interested in doing that, then?”

 

“Of course; that’s awesome. Anything that’ll help us catch them faster is A-OK with me. I didn’t think you wanted to though, it sounded like a you-or-them type deal.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says. “Well, it sort of was at first. We’re not big fans of them-”

 

“Who could blame you?” Stiles interrupts, and Derek looks almost alarmed for a second. “You’re werewolves, they hunt ‘em, and it didn’t used to just be the off-the-rails ones. Old feuds, bad blood, etcetera. I get ya.”

 

Derek’s face smooths back over at that, leaving Stiles to wonder why the first statement had startled him. 

 

“Right,” Derek says slowly. “But we decided it’s for the best, and if you’re comfortable talking to them, it would mean a lot less talking about all this stuff around here in the long run. And if we’re lucky, there won’t even be a long run. This family’s been in the practice a long time. The Argents.”

 

“Hmm, that actually sounds a little familiar,” Stiles says, trying to think of where he’s heard of them before. He dismisses it pretty quickly though, because it’d probably just been an old case on the news or something. “But yeah, sounds good. Thank you. Like, seriously. I really can’t wait to get this all cleared up.”

 

Derek looks uncomfortable again, and Stiles makes a mental note to ask Isaac if he’s okay later.

 

“That’s good,” Derek says. “I still have to call them and see if they’re available right now, but I figured we should ask you first. There’s another hunting family not too far from here if they can’t, but either way, we’ll work something out.”

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says again. “Really, my dad’s gonna be so relieved when I call him.”

 

“Tell him it’s no problem,” Derek says.

 

Stiles smiles at him, and despite the little voice in the back of his mind yelling at him that he’s going to have to come up with some seriously good lies to protect Scott’s status from some hunters who would certainly be interested in it, for the first time, things are really looking up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, a couple of new developments this chapter;) We're still not rushing into anything, but we're finally getting on our way. And hey, looks like there's gonna be two new character tags soon!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I had to upload this from my phone, and my italics and POV breaks got all thrown off, and I fixed as much as I could from memory, but please excuse anything that seems like a glaringly obvious formatting error.

“Mr. Argent. Allison,” Derek greets, stepping back from the door to allow them inside.

 

“Alpha Hale,” they say in unison.

 

Chris looks way older than Derek remembers—way more worn, almost. His hair is gray and his face tired, but he’s well-dressed and strong-looking, and Derek thinks the years must have taken a similar toll on them. His daughter looks as interesting a mixture of pleasant and terrifying as the pack had described. Her lips are a pale pink and there’s a delicate silver bracelet on her left wrist, but from the same hand dangles a crossbow that she sets down by the door, and her face is blank. She looks nothing like either of her parents, nor like Gerard or Kate, and it’s hard to tell if it’s because of the few physical characteristics they have in common, or because she seems to lack the distinct hardness in her eyes the rest of them all shared. Though, of course, that’s when she’s not pissed off.

 

“You wanted to discuss the case with us before we went to see Mr. Stilinski?” Chris asks, getting right down to business.

 

“I did,” Derek says, gesturing towards the living room.

 

Chris and Allison sit on opposite ends of the couch, with equally perfect posture, while Derek takes the armchair.

 

“What details can you give us?” Chris asks, pulling a worn, leather-bound book from his pocket, while Allison takes out her phone, presumably opening the notes.

 

“His name is Stiles Stilinski, he’s twenty-one, and his father John is a sheriff in New York, who’s trying to help out as much as he can. He has some notes from the kidnappers that he’ll send you. Stiles was kidnapped and held hostage for two months. His captors were all blue-eyed alphas, five of them.”

 

The only sign of disbelief either of them shows is a quick flash of surprise in Allison’s eyes, before her face schools back to blankness.

 

“Five alphas, all in the same pack?” Chris confirms, carefully writing things down.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What else?”

 

“They tortured him, and he escaped and ended up here. Sheriff Haigh doesn’t want his men involved with a werewolf case, and I don’t want to risk my pack trying to go after them myself. I don’t think he’s telling us everything, either.”

 

“There’s no point in taking a case if we’re not getting the full story. If he’s leaving things out, they’re probably the most important details," Chris says, mouth forming a grim line.

 

“There’s no way to guarantee he’s telling us the truth, but I thought maybe he’d be more receptive to professionals.”

 

“How would you feel about listening in to his heartbeat?”

 

“ _Dad_ ,” Allison hisses.

 

“I really don’t think he would be okay with that,” Derek says, frowning. He’s been raised listening to heartbeats and scenting emotions, but there’s something vastly different about doing it to see if a pack member is lying in a casual situation, when the other person can just as easily listen to your heartbeat, and doing it to a guy with a distinct fear of werewolves and their abilities to discern if he’s lying about something that’s clearly distressing for him.

 

“It’s nothing personal,” Chris says, spreading his hands. “But if he’s not giving the full story, we’re not going to be able to solve this, and it’s a much less upsetting method than interrogating him.”

 

“We don’t need to interrogate him,” Allison says, like she’s the one who has the final say on the matter. “Maybe he’s just leaving out the more gory details, and it seems like it's something more important than it is. And if Alpha Hale’s not comfortable with it, Stilinski definitely won’t be. If he doesn’t seem like he's telling the truth, we’ll poke into it. But if he was held by werewolves for months, the last thing he’s going to want is an alpha lie detector watching him.”

 

That was kind of profound and receptive, for an Argent, Derek thinks. Which, okay, is sort of stupid, because the entire family can't be made up of Kates and Gerards, but still. He's impressed.

 

“Alright,” Chris agrees. “But we will poke into it if he’s covering things. And you do understand, Alpha, that this is something we’ve never dealt with before. Something no one’s ever dealt with before, probably. You could get some higher level of government involved, if you wanted.”

 

Derek had thought about that; extensively, in fact. That’s probably what he would do, if the National Werewolf Bureau were able to tell a werewolf from a unicorn. He’d reported the situation to the sheriff, and he assumes that Haigh will pass the information up to some higher level officials to make sure his hide is covered, and if they want to step in, Derek will let them. But even if they did, even if they had every detail Stiles seems to be keeping Derek in the dark about, Derek doesn’t think for a second they could outdo the Argents. Those guys, the ones who do it for a living, aren’t actually any good. Since getting themselves into positions of power after the war, werewolves so rarely step seriously out of line for fear of setting something new off, so the NWB hardly ever has anything to deal with, let alone something as difficult as this. The ones who get into hunting now aren’t taken seriously. They do it for the money; they retire at fifty-five. That’s great for them, and Derek supposes he supports the little old men living out their golden years werewolf-free in the countryside, but for them, hunting is a job. For the Argents, it’s a lifestyle. The Argents hunt free of charge because they feel it’s their duty, and while that must’ve been a terrifying thought to all of Derek’s ancestors, it's actually going to be useful for him. The Argents drink water, breathe air, and hunt werewolves, and for the first time, a werewolf is going to benefit from that.

 

“They’re not the Argents,” Derek says simply, and Chris nods like he knew what Derek’s answer would be.

 

“Are we ready to meet him?”

 

“He’s upstairs,” Derek says, standing to lead the way.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Chris greets, as he steps up to Stiles’ bed and sticks out a hand.

 

“Stiles,” he says, shaking it.

 

“Ah. It’s nice to meet you, Stiles. I’m Chris Argent. This is my daughter Allison.”

 

Allison steps forward to shake his hand as well, her face professional as ever, but Derek notices the way her eyes soften as she takes in all of Stiles’ wounds. They each take a folding chair Derek hands them and sit at Stiles’ bedside. Derek sets his own chair by the wall opposite the bed, in front of the dresser, which is great because it’s a good distance away from both Stiles and Chris Argent.

 

“We’re looking forward to getting your case resolved, Stiles,” Allison says.

 

“Trust me, so am I,” Stiles says. “Where do we start?”

 

“Why don’t you tell us about when you were taken, and by whom,” she suggests. She’s already tapping away on her phone again, though Derek couldn’t guess what she might be writing so soon.

 

“I was at this convenience store one night around two months ago—honestly, I don’t know the date, I’ll have to ask my Dad. I just know it was fifty-eight days. Anyway...”

 

Stiles proceeds to tell a story of how the alpha twins grabbed him on his way back to his car and forced him into their trunk, knocking him out.

 

“Any idea why they did it?” Chris asks.

 

“Took me?”

 

“Mmm. Did they give a motive? If there’s one thing criminals like, it’s going on and on about their plans to anyone they don’t think can escape them. Did they give any indication as to why they took you? Why it was you in particular, or why they took anyone at all? Five people, five alphas, don’t just get together and start plucking people off the street for no reason.”

 

“They didn’t say,” Stiles says. “I mean, sure, they said how much fun I was to ‘play with’ and how they don't like humans and shit like that, but I don’t think there was a reason it was me in particular, and I don’t know why they would’ve wanted to kidnap anyone at all. They just seemed to be enjoying themselves. They talked about killing me sometimes,” he adds, apparently trying to sound casual about it. “But they didn’t. Ya know, clearly. So I don’t really know what they wanted.”

 

“Could it have been something to do with you, specifically?” Chris asks. “As a hypothetical.”

 

“I dunno,” Stiles says. “I mean, I guess so. I’ve never met them, but I guess it’s possible.”

 

“Do you buy or sell drugs?”

 

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Do you owe anyone money?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do any of your friends owe anyone money?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you have any enemies?”

 

“I’m twenty-one.”

 

“Do you have any enemies?” Chris repeats emphatically.

 

“No.”

 

“And none of your friends do, either? Or family members?”

 

“No.”

 

“You can’t think of a single reason someone would want to kidnap you?”

 

“When I was a kid, my dad used to say if anyone ever kidnapped me, they’d drop me back home in five minutes because I was such a chatterbox. So, no. I’m utterly unappealing, in both social and hostage situations.”

 

Chris doesn’t so much as smile, but Allison offers a small one.

 

“And yet they did kidnap you,” Chris says, writing something else down. “Alright. Describe them for us, describe the place they held you, and tell us about your time with them. If you remember any unusual instruments, let us know. Some things are harder to get your hands on than others, and uncommon purchases can be traced.”

 

Stiles describes the alphas for the Argents the same way he did for Derek, then the basements they kept him in and when, along with the car and transport van they used. Derek’s stomach turns as he describes anything notable they used on him.

 

“There was a cage,” he says, ticking things off on his fingers. “Not anything special though. Like a dog one but stronger, with an actual lock on it. Didn’t have a brand name. There was a cattle prod kind of thing but for humans, and… this machine? I don’t know what you would call it. It was a box with dials and wires, and they’d hook me up to it and it would run low-ish levels of electricity.” He laughs, hard and bitter. “Not that lower levels make it any fun, but it wasn’t enough to kill me. Neither of those had any real way to identify them either though, I don’t think. Other than that it was a lot of pliers and claws and rope and shit, nothing you could trace in a million years.”

 

“Unfortunately, no, none of those sound like things we could easily track, unless they were all bought from the same place.”

 

“What? Torture-Implements-R-Us? Sounds like a dead end.”

 

Chris shrugs.

 

“You’d be surprised what kind of places you could find if you know where to look. I’ll check in with some contacts, but I wouldn’t put too much faith in that path.”

 

“We’ll do our best, though,” Allison assures. “Why don’t you tell us how you escaped?”

 

That’s certainly something that interests Derek. It seems like such a long time ago that he’d gone out into the woods and found Stiles running through their territory, but it’s only been a few days. In all the time he and his pack have spent living with Stiles, though, exactly how he got to be in the preserve in the first place hadn’t come up.

 

“Sure,” Stiles says, resettling himself so he’s sitting up straighter, and Derek doesn’t know if he imagines Stiles’ quick, nervous glance at him or not. He’s probably just reading too much into things; why would Stiles need to be nervous about this? Unless he did something illegal to escape? But even then, it’s not like Derek would have him punished for breaking the law in a scenario like this. “They did me up in ropes around my ankles and wrists, gagged me, and put me in the cage. Said we were going on a trip, god only knows where to. They put the cage in the back of this old transport van and locked the door. And, well, that’s the thing. The lock was broken, so they padlocked the doors together instead, but I was pretty tightly secured, so I guess they weren’t really worried about it or anything. I was there for a while, trying to get free, when I noticed this sliver of metal on the floor by the back wall. It took a hell of a lot of maneuvering, but I finally got my fingers through the bars and grabbed it. I sawed the ropes off my wrists, then my ankles, and picked the cage lock. My dad’s a sheriff, and I was kind of a troublemaker when I was younger, so it wasn’t too hard. Figured I could pick the lock on the door, too. There was an old soundproof barrier between me and the passenger part of the truck, but I knew they could still hear me if they were paying attention. I waited for an opportunity where they were distracted, and pretty soon they got a phone call, and they all started shouting about something really heatedly, so I picked the door’s lock as quietly as I could and slipped out. We were on this deserted road, and there were some woods right next to it. I snuck away till I thought I was out of earshot, then I took off running. I ran into Derek after a while. Like, literally.”

 

"That all sounds very convenient," Chris says, in a tone that's not outright doubtful, but at the same time, gives off a clear air of uncertainty.

 

"What do you mean?" Stiles asks.

 

"That the lock should be broken, that you should know how to pick it, that a phone call angering enough to all of them that they didn't hear you should come at the right time, that they should be so careful that they were able to keep you for two months, only to let you escape by doing something as careless as leaving a sharp piece of metal near you. It all lines up perfectly."

 

"I wouldn't call it perfect," Stiles says flatly. "It took two months, and I ran straight into another alpha."

 

“What were you doing in the woods?” Chris asks, apparently dropping his suspicion for now as he turns to Derek.

 

Derek wishes he weren't a mature adult and alpha, and that he weren't speaking to Chris Argent, because I _live here_ , is feeling like a pretty good answer.

 

“Cora was on a run, and she came back to say she heard someone in the woods. I went out to investigate, smelled Stiles, and tracked him down.”

 

“What happened after that?” Chris asks, looking back to Stiles.

 

“I don’t remember."

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

“I passed out.”

 

“You’re lucky Alpha Hale found you before they did, then. Exhaustion or injury?”

 

“I’m sure it was a combination,” Derek answers for him, seeing the way Stiles’ face has reddened a little. He highly doubts Stiles would want to admit to a man like Chris Argent that he’d fainted in fear. Besides, he was injured and exhausted, and it’s not like it matters.

 

“What happened after that? Did the alphas make any attempt to follow you?”

 

“Not that I know of,” Derek says. “I carried him home and took him down to the basement so Deaton could check him out. The hospital was just like the police, not wanting any angry werewolves after them, and Deaton said he would be able to take care of it with all the supplies he keeps down there. I didn’t smell any wolves in the forest, and no one’s come to the house.”

 

“I don’t think they would,” Stiles pipes up. “They’re probably out of state, by now.”

 

“I wouldn’t be too confident,” Chris says. “If you don’t know their motive, and they planned to take you somewhere, they very well could want you back. Criminals also tend to overestimate themselves, so just because you escaped doesn’t mean they’re going to leave you alone. If it were a standard kidnapping, sure, maybe. But five alphas band together to kidnap some kid and transport him across the country, only to have him escape when they get on the move again? They aren’t going to give up so easily. I recommend you keep on your toes. All of you.”

 

“As comforting as that is,” Stiles says, “I know they probably still want me for their big bad wolf purposes. It’s just… Derek.” Stiles keeps his eyes on the Argents as he talks, and starts drumming his fingers against his right knee. “They were scared of him. I don’t know what it was, or where they got the idea, but they always used to talk about how ruthless he is, how vicious. They didn’t even want to cross his territory, but they ended up doing it, and it didn’t work out very well for them. I guess they’ve probably done a little more research by now and realized he’s just a regular alpha, but they had some serious misconceptions about him, and they probably left his territory as soon as they realized I was gone. They actually talked about giving me up to him once, though I don’t know what they thought Derek would want with me. But, yeah. I guess they’ll be back soon if they ever left at all, but I think they did stay away for a few days at least, till they realized he wasn’t like them.”

 

That's extremely weird. Why would some alphas Derek's never even heard of be afraid of him? The alpha who was so young when he inherited his territory, who practically abandoned it for years, who has a pack made up of college kids and a temperamental uncle?

 

“I have no idea where they got that idea,” Derek says slowly. “But I guess it worked to our advantage if it’s stopped them from coming back so far.”

 

“Well,” Allison says. “Whatever gave them the idea doesn’t matter. They could still come back till we catch them, especially since all this made the news. There’s no mistaking where you are. We’ll look into setting you up with some protective measures against werewolves, though. If you’re careful, you’ll be fine.”

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, fingers still silently drumming away.

 

“I think we’re mostly done for today,” Chris says. “Last thing; do you know any werewolves? Besides this pack, of course.”

 

“My best friend Scott is one.”

 

“Beta?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“No enemies?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Good,” he says, standing and shaking Stiles’ hand again. “We’ll be in touch.”

 

“If you could give me you and your father’s numbers, that’d be great,” Allison says, passing Stiles her phone and waiting for him to enter them. When he hands the phone back, she pockets it and gives him a sad smile. “We'll catch them, Stiles. Try not to worry too much.”

 

“Course not. This conversation wasn’t worrisome at all." He laughs, and Derek thinks it probably sounded a lot more nervous than he intended.

 

“You’ll be fine,” she says over her shoulder, following her father out the door. “Feel better.”

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour later, Derek appears back in his doorway.

 

“Mind if I grab these chairs?"

 

“Go for it."

 

Derek picks up the folding chair at the foot of the bed, then goes to get the other two, closer to Stiles. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure this is the closest he’s ever willingly allowed Derek near him.

 

“You know,” Stiles starts, and Derek pauses to look at him. He’d kind of hoped Derek would just keep doing what he was doing. “About what I was saying before… that’s why you, uh, scared me so much.”

 

“What the alphas said?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, they talked about you like you were this complete brute, and they kept saying how you would want me and stuff, and I didn't even know what that _meant_ , but it sure sounded creepy as hell, and when I finally managed to escape them, it was to end up on your territory of all places. And you were, ya know, flashing your eyes at me and announcing your status and stuff,” he says, stomach twisting at the memory. “And then I woke up and I was in a basement—again, another fucking basement, chains on the walls and all—with an alpha standing over me, and I freaked. And I just- I wanted to make sure you weren’t feeling guilty about it or anything, I guess. Like, cause it wasn’t your fault, how messed up I was. Am. Whatever. I was just expecting someone like Deucalion again, but you’re a different kind of alpha. A good one. So… sorry for not listening to anything you had to say, and being a jerk, and… yeah.”

 

Derek stares at him for a long time, still half bent over the metal chair he was folding up.

 

“Don’t be,” he says finally. “We- _I_ , made a lot of stupid mistakes trying to handle this. It’s not your fault."

 

“Still,” Stiles says. “I still won’t let you near me, and I know you’re not like them. That’s pretty screwed up.”

 

“I’m pretty close to you right now,” Derek points out.

 

“Come closer,” Stiles says suddenly. Impulsively.

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Derek says, actually taking a small step back.

 

“It’s a good idea for me to lay here and have like, no human contact at all till I’m comfortable around werewolves? Trust me, it’s gonna be a while. I’m not asking you to go all red-eyed on me, just- come here.”

 

Derek frowns, but after a moment he hefts the last chair under his right arm and steps closer, reaching out with his left.

 

His hand seems to be moving in slow motion—maybe because it practically is—as it nears, and then all the sudden it’s on Stiles’ shoulder. They both stare at the point of contact for a moment, like they’re waiting for an impending explosion, but nothing happens except Stiles’ shoulder warming a little under the touch.

 

“Mission accomplished,” Derek says after a few more seconds, with a small, encouraging smile.

 

“Mission accomplished,” Stiles echoes. “ _Fuck yeah_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this passed 50k today, which is completely mind-blowing to think about, and makes this twice as long as anything else I've written so far, so I just wanted to thank you guys for being amazing and patient and really nice, and sticking around for my maddening slow burn;) I love ya, and I really appreciate it!
> 
> And, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late!! I've been writing _a lot_ of oneshots over on tumblr lately, so this kind of got pushed off. Hopefully I can get the next update in before next weekend.

Things don’t magically fix themselves after that.

 

They do, though, get considerably better. The only thing to fear is fear itself, Stiles supposes. Except, of course, there’s actually a hell of a lot more to fear. Still, once he lets Derek touch him, he’s pretty okay about letting the others near him, too. Glowing eyes and things like that are still completely out of the question, but being served breakfast without having to do sit ups is suddenly an option, and his back definitely appreciates it.

 

Even after Derek told the others about Stiles’ progress, they were still hesitant to come near him without permission the first time, but it didn’t take them more than the rest of the day to get used to it. Isaac was the most reluctant, but after Stiles explained Scott’s spider metaphor to him—and after pretending to be horribly insulted at being compared to a spider—even he was fine about it.

 

It’s good, having a little bit of human contact again. He knows if he were a werewolf he would’ve missed it desperately, but even as a human, you start to miss the contact after a while, even if it’s just a hand on the shoulder, or a brush of fingertips as someone hands you a plate.

 

It’s nice to have that feeling back.

 

* * *

 

Back home, when Stiles wasn’t hanging out with Scott, watching baseball, or doing schoolwork, he was generally on the internet. In fact, he doesn’t think it’s physically possible for anyone to spend as much time online as he sometimes did. His researching skills were legendary (well, at least Scott thought it was pretty cool), and whether it was to help him write a ten page paper on the history of the male circumcision, or to find as much accurate information on true alphas as possible, he could find just about anything he wanted, when he had the patience. Now, one might think that as an injured, bedridden person, he might finally get a break from all that, but nope. Apparently not. Derek, his pack, and the hunters are great and all, but he’s the only person with all the information on the alphas, and therefore, likely the only one who’s going to be able to actually find them, or at least get a real lead. Once he does get on their trail, he figures he’ll tip off the Argents and let them take it from there. He’s going to have to come up with a great web of lies as to how exactly he managed to locate the alphas before they did, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he’s just going to put his new phone to good use.

 

His thumbs dance idly over the keyboard before he decides he might as well begin at the beginning.

 

**ducalion**

**Showing results for: _deucalion_** _,_ pops up on his screen, and since none of the options spell it the way he guessed, he selects that instead.

A Wikipedia article on a Greek god is the first thing to come up, and Stiles hits _control f_ to do a quick search of the page for ‘werewolf’ and ‘werewolves’.  Nothing comes up for either, and he sighs. He’s glad he has a task, because normally he could spend hours delving into the lineage of some god he’s never heard of.

 

He learns that Deucalion is the son of Prometheus, and that both saved themselves when Zeus brought about a flood in retaliation to a savage offering from Lycaon.  Stiles knows the basics on the legend of Lycaon, but he reads that article too, if only because it’s the closest the page gets to a mention of werewolves. None of that is of any help to him, but it does make him wonder if Deucalion chose the name of a god on purpose, or if it’s his given name. If he picked it, it’ll be much harder to find him, and Stiles is surprised he didn’t go with a more well-known one, like Zeus—or, more fittingly, Hades.

 

He sighs, returning to Google.

 

**deucalion kali ethan ennis aiden**

 

Tons of things pop up from that search, but none of them seem terribly useful either. There are Facebook and Instagram pages of all kinds of Kalis and Ethans and Aidens, but after reaching the ninth page of Google, and scrolling through thousands of images, Stiles declares that path a bust as well.

 

He tries different combinations, striking them off on his phone’s notes as each fails to bring good results. ‘Kali and Ennis’ is a bakery in Georgia, ‘Ethan and Aiden’ are the grandchildren of an old woman on Twitter, and ‘Deucalion and Ennis’ hardly brings any results at all. He hits at least the fifth page of Google before he gives up on each of them, and it’s more and more frustrating each time. He knows they’re probably not even real names, and yet, he can’t just not try.

 

**alpha deucalion**

**alpha kali**

**alpha ennis**

**alpha aiden**

**alpha ethan**

 

Nothing useful.

 

**alpha pack**

 

A college frathouse, a group of old men with red eyes hugging in front of a nursing home, and about a billion sites talking about **Alpha** Blah Blah Blah’s **Pack** come up.

 

**alpha twins**

 

That brings up a bunch of sites talking about them, and Stiles opens a few windows.

 

**_Alpha Twins!_ **

_That’s right, folks! Right here in Wyoming, the very first set of Alpha Twins in who knows how long! We proudly welcome the two adorable little pups, as we wish a solemn goodbye to their mother. The family has yet to release a statement on which twin, or whether it’ll be both, will take the territory when they come of age. Will it be who was born first? Who’s bigger? Will they fight for it? Split it? But for now, who cares?! Let’s welcome these little cutie patooties into the world with open-_

 

He skims through one of the tabloid articles, dated June, 2008, and quickly deems it useless, instead opening one of the more professional looking links.  

 

**_Alpha Twins: The Phenomenon_ **

_Alpha twins are an incredibly rare occurrence that come about one of several ways. If an alpha’s first children are conjoined twins, when that Alpha dies, both twins would presumably become alphas. Due to the rarity of alpha twins, this situation has not occurred in recorded medical history; however, it has been deemed by scientists to be the most likely outcome. Alpha twins can also result from an Alpha dying during childbirth as a result of her twins. If both twins cause the death, each will rise to alpha status. This was the case in the birth of Alpha Ramirez’s twins in June of 2008—both twins have since died, the result of a three car pileup. Though these twins were not old enough to have control of their shift, and the last known pair of twins, born in September of 1938, refused to attempt it, it is rumored that alpha twins would be capable of joining themselves into one body, to form a larger, more powerful wolf. These rumors have not been confirmed. The final way for twins to both become alphas, and to be able to combine into this single wolf, is assumed to be through murder. If each twin strikes a killing blow to their alpha parent, each would become an alpha and therefore be alpha twins. Even though they would not share one alpha spark, it is potentially conceivable that if twins each killed a different alpha, they might be able to form a single wolf as well. This theory has not, and cannot be verified, as both alphas would, of course, be promptly jailed.  _

 

 

Well, since the Ramirez twins were far too young to be Ethan and Aiden, even if they somehow escaped the car crash, and the only known born twins before them were in their seventies, that means either the twins’ birth had been kept very hush-hush, or they had killed someone to gain their status. The latter really wouldn’t surprise Stiles at all. Their blue eyes had to come from somewhere, after all. Even with how awful they are, how cruel and twisted, Stiles can’t help but wonder how they’d gotten that way. From their parents? But then, where were they? No, something must’ve happened to them. They’re just so _young_ … probably Stiles’ age, or not much older. Even if something made them the way they are, though, Stiles really can’t bring himself to feel much sympathy.

_Claws or knives today, bitch?_

_If Scott actually cared about you, wouldn’t he be here by now? Don’t act like he doesn’t know your disgusting scent well enough to find you._

 

Yeah. Whatever made them that way sucks, but Stiles really couldn’t give a shit.

 

He brings up a registry of all the Alphas who’ve run territories in the last thirty years, but none of their names are on it.

 

There are plenty of alphas who don’t have territories, but they’re much harder to find, and while the government probably has that information somewhere, it’s certainly not available to Stiles.

 

**werewolf blindness**

 

There are very few useful-looking articles on that. A lot of them are highly scientific and make no sense to him, but after a while he manages to find one that dumbs it down.

 

Still, it’s horribly long and boring, and not terribly helpful. It talks about how uncommon it is, that there are only a handful of blind werewolves in the US, etcetera. It also says there have been cases where blinded wolves can see when they’re shifted—like Deucalion—and ones where they can’t see at all. Werewolves born blind seem to stay blind their entire lives, and werewolves who were somehow blinded tend to heal over time. It takes a while, since the eyes are so delicate, but apparently it’s possible. Deucalion hasn’t healed yet, and Stiles doesn’t really know or care if he will. The few times he’d seen Deucalion’s eyes though, they seemed seriously damaged, and certainly didn’t look like they’d be healing _anytime_ soon. Deucalion being blind doesn’t make him any less scary, anyway; he functions perfectly well the way he is, and when he does want help, his pack is more than happy to guide him.

 

When he searches for blind werewolves, he only comes up with two, and he's pretty sure the gray-haired old man and little girl with pigtails aren't Deucalion in disguise.

 

That makes sense though, considering even if Deucalion was blinded before he became evil—if there was a before… maybe he used to hit the other kids over the head with his rattle when he was a baby, and his parents always knew he’d be horrible—there’d be no reason to spread it around, short of being killed for his power.

 

The next time Stiles checks the clock, he sighs. Several hours have passed, and he has absolutely nothing to show for it.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Isaac says. “Whatcha up to?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing?” he says skeptically.

 

Which, yeah, considering Stiles hadn’t even looked up from his phone, kind of makes sense.

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, setting it on the nightstand. It’s not like it’s been any help, anyway, so he might as well take a break. “I’m trying to do some research on the alphas and whatever.”

 

“You find anything?” Isaac asks, looking at him interestedly.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, but whatever,” Stiles says, shrugging. “It’s only been a day. How come you didn’t bring dinner?”

 

Isaac scoffs.

 

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually not a waiter.”

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, and he can feel his cheeks reddening. “Sorry, that’s not-”

 

“Not what you meant,” Isaac laughs. “I know, Stiles, totally kidding. I do always bring food with me, to be fair. Peter’s still making it, though. That’s actually kind of why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

“That doesn’t sound at all ominous.”

 

“I try joking, I freak him out, I try being serious, suddenly I‘m ominous,” Isaac says. “No pleasing you, is there?”

 

“It would please me if you brought dinner,” Stiles says, arching a challenging eyebrow.

 

Isaac throws his hands up in mock surrender.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. “But uh, seriously. Or, ominously. Whatever. Derek had an idea, and I wanted to see how you felt about it.”

 

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

 

Isaac sounds pretty tentative, so the odds that Stiles is going to like this idea seem pretty slim.

 

“He was thinking maybe we could put an armchair up here. If that’s something you’d be into? It’d let you have somewhere else to sit besides in bed all day. Granted, it’s not much, but it’s gotta be better than laying there 24/7, right?”

 

Stiles nods slowly. That can’t be all; there’s no reason they’d really have to run that by him.

 

“And also,” Isaac continues, “we were thinking maybe we could hang out here sometimes? Instead of just standing in the doorway for a few minutes at a time?” When Stiles doesn’t respond right away, he rushes to continue. “I mean, not if it makes you uncomfortable. You definitely don’t have to, and if you want us to mostly stay away, that’s cool. We know you just started really letting us near you yesterday, and we don’t want to push you at all. It doesn’t even have to be soon, if you don’t want. Derek said it’s a standing offer. And we could put it in the opposite corner from your bed, if that’s a problem. Just, you know, we figured maybe we could get to know you a little better? It’s kind of looking like you’re gonna be here a while longer, and it’s probably kind of lonely up here all day. I mean, the only reason most of us are ever up here is to bring you stuff, and we seriously don’t mind, like, _at all_ , but just- Derek suggested it, and the pack thought it would be good if we got to know you better. You know, if you’d be okay with that.”

 

“Whoa, whoa,” Stiles says, raising his own hands, this time. “That sounds fine, Isaac.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, as comfortable as I’m sure that doorframe is, I bet it’d appreciate a break from you guys leaning against it half the day.”

 

Isaac smiles, and takes a step away from the door.

 

“Derek’s gonna be happy,” he says. “You know, in his secret, Ron Swanson way. He’s big on pack bonding, even if he doesn’t like admitting it. And even if you’re not pack, you kind of are while you’re here.”

 

“You guys sound like you’re running an Olive Garden.”

 

“What?”

 

“You know,” Stiles says, waving his hands. “’While you’re here, you’re family.’ Except, ya know, with pack. Uncultured much, Isaac?”

 

“Because Olive Garden is the finest Italian restaurant there is,” he deadpans.

 

“Whatever,” Stiles laughs. “Point is, that’s you guys. But yeah, tell Derek you guys can bring a chair up here to chill, I’m fine with it. It’d probably be good, actually.”

 

“Soon, or…?”

 

“Whenever he wants,” Stiles says, shrugging.

 

“Cool,” Isaac says. “Smells like dinner’s ready. Why don’t I go make myself _useful_?”

 

Stiles sticks his tongue out and Isaac flips him off, trying and failing not to smile.

 

It feels nice. Normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your thoughts are appreciated!!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you guys have been asking for more of the betas interacting, so here ya go!

 “What’d he say?” Derek asks, as Peter dishes out dinner.

 

“Said it’s cool,” Isaac says, smiling. “You can even bring it up tonight, if you want. And I think you should—you haven’t seen him since yesterday, right?”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

He really should’ve gone to see Stiles at some point today, but just…  it’s so uncomfortable. Stiles was cool with Derek coming near him yesterday, and he’s been really good about the betas getting near him, but Derek still knows he’s the hardest one to deal with. He’s still an alpha. He probably doesn’t even really want to see Derek. He’s a few years older, after all, while all the betas besides Peter are actually Stiles’ age. He really should just let them hang out with him, and mostly keep his distance. That would be the smart thing to do. The right thing, for Stiles.

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says, pointing his fork at him. “Oughta do it tonight then.” 

 

“I’ll try. Thanks for asking.”

 

“Yup.”

 

Everyone’s silent for a while, just eating.

 

Finally, Erica pipes up, “What’s he even doing up there? Still just playing that game on his phone? Cuz that _cannot_ be healthy.”

 

“Actually, he’s been doing research on the alphas all day,” Isaac says.

 

“Why? The Argents are way more likely to find anything than he is,” Cora points out.

 

“You have the heart to tell him that? Cuz I don’t. Besides, it gives him something to do with his time, and it can’t hurt.”

 

“It’s not good for him to obsess over it,” Boyd says. “I mean, if the guy wants to do research, go ahead, but if it becomes a regular thing… fixating isn’t going to help him get over anything.”

 

“Again: tell him that,” Isaac says, shrugging. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re tying to control him. And anyway, we finally got him to trust us. Not wanting him to dig into things makes it sound like we have something to hide.”

 

“We _do_ have things to hide,” Derek says quietly. Blue eyes, Paige, Peter, the fire… Stiles may have secrets, but it’s not like the Hale Pack doesn’t have plenty of their own.

 

“You think he would go digging into that stuff?” Isaac asks, brow creasing.

 

“I don’t know. I mean,” he looks around at his betas, lowers his voice even more, “he was telling the Argents that the alphas were scared of our pack, for some reason.”

 

“Maybe they’ve seen Erica before she puts on her makeup.”

 

Erica picks up a tater tot and hurls it at Isaac at top speed, but he plucks it out of the air easily, grinning as he pops it in his mouth.

 

“Maybe they’ve seen _you_ before your morning coffee,” she huffs, but she’s doing a poor job of masking a smile.

 

“Can you please harass each other later?” Derek sighs. “I need you guys to be serious for five minutes.”

 

“We’ve been being nothing but serious for a _week_ , Der. Still gotta live a little around here.” Erica’s right, and Derek really does feel bad. The pack are generally pretty loud and rambunctious, but since Stiles’ arrival, everyone’s been unusually mellow. It’s probably killing them a little, being so calm all the time, but it’s necessary. “But alright, fine, c’mon, why’re they scared of us?” she asks.

 

“I have no idea,” Derek says. “We’re just finally working our way back up to former status. Not like we’ve really done anything progressive.”

 

“We’ve had a lot of shit happen to us,” Cora says. “But I don’t see a reason they’d be _scared_. Not like we really did anything to anyone on purpose. And Mom was pretty chill, so…” She shrugs. “Dunno.”

 

“Specifically, Stiles said they were scared of me. I don’t see how five alphas would be scared of one, though. They must have at least been taking the whole pack into account.”

 

“What were his exact words?”

 

“Something about them being scared to cross my territory, and how ‘vicious’ and ‘ruthless’ I am.”

 

“I don’t know, but…” Cora says, after a moment, “some of the papers painted a pretty awful picture of you, after everything that happened. Maybe they read up on it?”

 

It’s a decent suggestion, but it doesn’t really make a ton of sense. Jennifer is the publicist of such a prestigious pack for a reason. She had lawyers sue the hell out of anyone they could for defamation of character when they painted Derek in a negative light for the fire. For Paige, there was less they could really do about it, but a few well-placed phonecalls—and, knowing Jennifer, probably some more _underground_ stuff—meant she had gotten it _well_ off the first few pages of any major search engines, and that the news reporters went on about it for far less time than they would’ve. Derek hated it, at the time. If the reporters wanted to rip him apart for Paige—if an angry lion wanted to rip him apart for Paige, honestly—he would’ve let them, and gladly. His mother, though, hadn’t been so keen on the idea. She had a long talk with Paige’s parents, who wanted nothing more than peace from the insensitive newsmen prying into their lives, and let Jennifer take care of it. By the time she was done, the reports were almost entirely tributes to the kind of person she was, rather than malicious reports revolving around Derek. When the fire happened, there was really no way to stop the floods of reports on something that big, and there was no way to get them taken down permanently, of course, but Jennifer buried it as much as she could after a year or so, and presumably still keeps tabs on it. Honestly, Derek wouldn’t have wanted it fully taken down, anyway. It wouldn't have felt right.  

 

“Jennifer took care of it pretty well,” he says. “If they looked up ‘Derek Hale’, they would’ve found political mistakes, at worst. You’d have to be searching ‘Hale Pack fire’ or something to really find out about it, or be doing some pretty deep searching, and the reports that make me sound,” he pauses, takes a breath, “ _vicious_ are pretty few and far between.” 

 

“He’s right,” Isaac agrees. “There are conspiracy theories and shit, too, but I haven’t even heard one of those in forever.”

 

“Is it possible they were thinking of the wrong person?” Boyd asks.

 

His expression is calm as ever, but there’s something just a bit suggestive in his tone that Derek doesn’t pick up on right away.

 

“I don’t see how they could mess up Alpha Derek Hale with another random guy,” Erica says, frowning.

 

“Not another random guy,” Peter says wryly, speaking up for the first time. “But maybe another Alpha Hale, or Hale patriarch. Even a temporary one.”

 

 _Oh_. Oh, that makes sense. Peter killed Laura; his own niece’s life in exchange for her power. That certainly sounds pretty ruthless.

 

“It’s just something to consider,” Boyd says, his cool voice cutting any tension in the room. “Someone would’ve had to mess up pretty badly to end up finding information on Peter instead of you, and even if they had, Stiles said they all had blue eyes. They have no reason to fear another blue-eyed alpha. In fact, even if they found only the worst reports about you both, there’s still no real reason for them to be afraid of you, when there’s so many of them. Did he say what they were afraid of, exactly?”

 

The worst reports really are awful, though; insisting Kate and Derek were in cahoots, calling Paige's death a hate crime against humans, showing graphic pictures of Laura's body. Still... Boyd is right. Even all that shouldn't be enough to scare so many alphas. 

 

“Apparently they were scared that I would want Stiles,” Derek says, frowning. “I don’t know what for. Stiles said they were afraid to cross our territory because I might want to take him from them.”

 

“Why would you want Stiles?” Erica asks. “I mean, I can see if they thought you were a good guy or something, cause if you knew they were transporting Stiles, sure, you probably would’ve sent the whole police force out to recover him. But a bad guy? What would you need some random human for?”

 

“That’s true,” Isaac says. “Say you were evil or whatever, Der. What’s the fun in kidnapping someone that’s already been kidnapped? And a random human from New York? What would you want with him, anyway?”

 

“If you don’t want him for fun, you want him for his worth,” Peter says thoughtfully. “I suggested on his first day that they might’ve been torturing him for a reason, Derek, and it’s seeming more and more likely. Everything separately doesn’t amount to much, but when you add up the facts? They thought some other alpha would try to take him from them. They kidnapped the son of a sheriff. They took the trouble of carting him across the entire country. And as small as it may seem, he calls himself a ‘hostage’ more often than not. We call him one, yes, and maybe it’s not terribly convenient to say ‘kidnapped person’, and ‘hostage’ has become the general term for someone who was kidnapped. Fine. But when he spoke to Isaac in the basement, he specifically said he thought he was being held hostage. Not that he was kidnapped, or captured. _Held_ hostage. You only hold some hostage in exchange for something. It could just be the common word choice, but with everything else? Even you don’t think he’s giving us all the information, Derek.”

 

The whole pack is staring at him with wide eyes, and rather than looking smug like he normally might, Peter’s face is grim.

 

Derek hadn’t taken him seriously on the first day, of course. Peter is Peter, for one thing. Besides, Derek had literally just scared the guy into fainting, and his injuries coupled with his fear made him seem as nonthreatening as possible.

 

Cora is the first to collect her thoughts.

 

“You’re not going to decide he’s out to get us all again, are you?” she sighs. “Because poor word choice is looking like a serious option here.”

 

“On the contrary. If we’re to believe he’s not a bad guy, this could be in his favor," Peter says, spreading his hands. "If you have information, and you’re not using it to hurt someone, then what are you likely doing? Protecting someone. That’s respectable.”  

 

“This is getting kind of far-fetched, isn’t it?” Isaac asks. “I mean, maybe the alphas are just sadistic, Stiles has bad word choice, and everyone is reading too far into this.”

 

“For argument’s sake, say he is protecting someone,” Derek says. “That could be the key to all this.”

 

“That could be why he’s doing his own research, too,” Erica points out. She’s frowning even as she says it, like she doesn’t want to believe it. “If he’s not telling us everything, then maybe that’s why he thinks he needs to find things out for himself.”

 

“Well how can we convince him to tell us?” Derek asks. “ _Convince_ , not coerce.”

 

“You could do some research of your own,” Cora suggests.

 

“It’d be kind of shitty for us to go behind his back like that,” Isaac says.

 

“It’d be kind of shitty if we let someone get hurt because we don’t want to dig deeper than Stiles wants.”

 

“If you get him to trust you naturally,” Boyd says, "he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

 

That, of course, would be ideal. Stiles actually seems like a nice guy, and Derek would like for him to trust him and his pack. It’s just-

 

“What if it’s too late by then?” Erica asks.

 

“What if they show up outside in five minutes?” Boyd says, setting a hand on hers, where it sits on the table. “You can’t predict something like that.”

 

“I’m not much of one for surprises,” Peter says. “I say we’d be stupid to at least not try to figure it out.”

 

“I don’t know where to start,” Derek says. “He already told us the whole story yesterday. How they took him, a general picture of what they did for two months, and how he escaped.”

 

“Did he ever explain about the woman who helped him?” Peter asks. 

 

“What? What woman?”

 

“When he first called his father, he said there was a woman who helped him escape, but that he couldn’t talk about it right then. He seemed reluctant to mention it in front of us.”

 

“I don’t remember that,” Derek says, frowning.

 

“I actually do, now that you mention it,” Isaac says. “You probably had a ton of other things on your mind, Derek. He said something about some woman who was working with the alphas helping him escape, but then he said he’d tell his dad about it later and switched topics really fast.”

 

That’s so odd; Derek seriously has no memory of that at all. To be fair, there’d been about a million things going on at that time, but it would’ve been useful information when Stiles was retelling the story yesterday.

 

“He didn’t mention anything about a woman to the Argents,” Derek says. “He said there was a piece of metal in the back of a transport truck, and that he used it to saw off his ropes and pick the locks.”

 

“See,” Peter says. “He’s not giving you the whole story, Derek. He’s starting to forget his lies already, and I doubt it’ll be long before he tangles them all.”

 

“Are you going to ask him about it?” Cora asks. “Cause Der, I get if you don’t want to freak him out or invade his privacy of whatever, but this could seriously be life or death.”

 

“I don’t think he’d tell you either way,” Erica says. “He kinda seems to have a pretty long list of lies going, and he probably won't give them up easily.”

 

“Especially if he’s protecting someone,” Isaac puts in.

 

Derek sighs, standing up and starting to collect everyone’s dishes. 

 

“If he’s not telling me things, it’s not like I can make him.”

 

“Have you tried talking to his father?” Cora asks.

 

“Stiles said maybe I should give him a call, but I haven’t yet.”

 

“Well, there you go,” Boyd says, shrugging. “Bet his dad would be more straightforward with you, if it means protecting his son.”

 

“You wouldn’t be going behind his back, really,” Erica adds. “He _wants_ you to talk to his dad.”

 

“And if Mr. Stilinski is a bit more forthcoming with information than his son,” Peter says, “that’s between the two of them.”

 

“He also has those notes,” Isaac adds. “That Deucalion left? Those might help you too.”

 

“Alright,” Derek agrees, nodding. “I’ll give Mr. Stilinski a call tomorrow.”

 

 “Is there anything you need us to do?” Erica asks.

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“I told Chris he probably wasn’t telling us everything, but he and his daughter are on it. Between me, them, and Stiles’ father, hopefully we can get this sorted out. Besides, Boyd is probably right about him needing some people to just be friends with. I’ll try to sort this out, and you should all just be normal around him.”

 

“Like Cora can be normal,” Isaac says, smirking.

 

The tater tot _does_ hit him in the face, this time.

 

* * *

 

At nine o’clock, Derek appears in Stiles’ doorway, and it takes everything in Stiles not to burst out laughing.

 

Derek’s clad in a gray tank top and dark green pajama bottoms, and it just makes him look so… cozy. He certainly can’t picture picture Deucalion in plaid PJ’s. Better than that, though, is the chair he’s carrying. On his _head_. Okay, maybe that’s not as bad as he makes it sound—Derek’s got an armchair from the living room flipped upside down, the seat part brushing the top of his head, the chair’s arms resting on his shoulders and held up by his hands, making his biceps bulge. Stiles totally doesn't stare. 

 

“Where do you want this?” Derek asks casually, like he’s not holding a giant, cushiony chair above his head.

 

“Um,” Stiles says, glancing around the room. “There, I guess?”

 

He points at the corner adjacent to his bed, on the opposite side of the room from his door.

 

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. He’d already been through all the awkwardness with Isaac, and firmly decided that it could go in the corner closest to his bed.

 

Derek walks over and gracefully maneuvers the chair down to the floor, catty-cornering it.

 

“Good?”

 

“Good,” Stiles says. “Thanks. For moving it, obviously, but also just for, y'know, offering to. It gets kinda boring up here sometimes.

 

Boring. Lonely. Same difference.

 

“Not a problem,” Derek says. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before sitting down in the chair, setting his elbows on his knees.

 

Huh. Stiles wasn’t really expecting Derek to stick around long; it’s already getting a little late.

 

Derek looks at him, seemingly torn for a moment, and Stiles is about to ask if he’s okay when Derek says, “I’m going to get in touch with your father tomorrow. See if he can help us out.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, surprised. “Cool. He’ll actually probably be really happy. I know he’s kind of feeling out of the loop, with the distance and everything, and he’s awesome at his job, so that’d be great.”

 

Derek nods, seemingly satisfied.

 

“So,” he says, rubbing at his left shoulder. “How’re you feeling?”

 

* * *

 

Derek leaves around ten, and Stiles settles down into bed. He burrows into his sheets, and pulls out his phone, sending a quick text with half-drooping eyelids.

 

Derek seems like a pretty cool guy, but Stiles can’t have him ruining anything.

 

**Stiles Stilinski [10:04pm]**

_Hey dad, Derek’s gonna call tomorrow, please remember not to tell him anything I didn’t. Night, love you <3_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts!


	25. Chapter 25

“Hello, Mr. Stilinski,” Derek greets.

 

He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, feet kicked up on the coffee table. Stiles’ father looks to be sitting in his office at work, if the corkboard littered with pictures connected by different colors of string is anything to go by.

 

The sheriff nods and mouths something back, but no noise comes out. After what must be the initial greeting, he starts talking, but Derek has no clue what about.

 

“Uh, sir,” Derek interrupts. “I can’t hear you.”

 

Stilinski furrows his brow, then mouths something that looks a lot like ‘goddammit’. He looks at the computer screen instead of his webcam, and Derek figures he’s probably fiddling with the settings.

 

“Now?” he mouths, looking back up.

 

“No, sorry. You can hear me, right?” Derek asks.

 

Stilinski nods.

 

“Alright, I never really video chat with anyone, so I don't know how to fix that,” Derek says, frowning. “Hold on.” He turns toward the stairs and yells, “Erica!”

 

“Yeah?” she calls back.

 

“Can you come down here for a second?”

 

“Can it wait till a commercial?”

 

“I thought you were watching Netflix!”

 

“Can it wait till a more opportune moment?”

 

“Nevermind, then!” Derek calls. “Boyd!”

 

“He’s watching with me!” Erica yells. “Is it important?”

 

“Oh, god! Can you just come for a second?”

 

“Fine, _Mom!"_ she calls back. “Coming!”

 

Derek winces slightly, looking back at the screen, where Stilinski is silently chuckling.

 

“You’re gonna wake Stiles from his nap,” Erica says, as she bounds down the stairs. “ _And_ you’re making me miss Project Runway. What’s up?”

 

She leans over the back of the couch, looking down at the computer, and waves at Stilinski, who waves back.

 

“That Stiles’ dad?” she asks.

 

“Mhm. We have some things to talk about, and the volume won’t work. I don’t know which of our computers is screwing it up.”

 

“Oh my god, Derek, you’re so old,” she laughs. “Look, you just have to press the little microphone icon, and then raise the bar, and then… ooh, press function and F10, because you muted the whole computer.” She presses the buttons as she talks, then pulls back to lean against the couch again. “There.”

“I’m not _old_ ,” Derek grumbles, because he can't exactly defend his technology skills. Erica and Stilinski both laugh, and audibly, this time.

 

“Course not,” she says, ruffling his hair--he's seriously going to have to forbid the pack from doing that. 

 

Erica, apparently, has no qualms about embarrassing him in front of the sheriff. He really should’ve called Isaac instead.

 

“And you’re welcome. See you later, Mr. Stilinski,” she says, waving again as she heads back for the stairs. As she reaches the top, she yells, “Boyd, that _better_ be the voice of your secret male lover, and not Tim Gunn, because that TV was _paused_ when I left!”

 

Derek listens for a second, and he can hear Boyd’s deep laugh, followed by a shrieking one from Erica—he’s pretty sure there’s a tickle fight going on now, and he quickly tunes out before it turns into anything else.

 

“Fun pack,” Stilinski says.

 

“Sorry about that. Erica’s a little… lively.”

 

“Stiles probably never leaves her alone, then,” the sheriff says, with a sad little smile. “Lively company is good for him.”

 

“I think he’s having a pretty good time with the betas,” Derek says, which seems to make Stilinski feel a little better. “He and Isaac seemed to like each other right off the bat, and they’re all getting along well. And they all definitely like him.”

 

“He likes you, too, you know,” Stilinski says. “Not just your pack. He told Scott, and I quote, ‘Derek is a pretty cool dude’. High praise.”

 

Derek’s lips twitch, torn between smiling or not.

 

“You know,” Stilinski adds, somewhat hesitantly, “he’s having a big problem with alphas right now, but it doesn’t mean he hates you, son. I’m sure he needs his space sometimes, but it’s good for him to be around people as often as he can, and if he ever needs something and you’re the only one around…”

 

Derek looks at him quizzically for a moment, not quite sure what to make of that.

 

“We try to make sure he’s not alone all day,” he says, hopefully going down the right path.

 

“That’s good,” Stilinski says. Then he sighs, and says, “That’s not quite what I meant, though. I didn’t want to get into this so soon, but Stiles… he used to have panic attacks, when my wife passed. Nightmares, too. They weren’t good, Derek. He,” he pauses, lips thinning for a moment, “he’ll wake up screaming, or crying, or both, and it’s not easy to calm him down. It’s one of the _many_ reasons I’d like to be down there myself. I’m not sure how the enhanced hearing works when you’re asleep, but he told me your room is next door to his, and that the others are a little farther down the hall. So just... can you do me a favor?”

 

Derek nods, his throat feeling unusually dry.

 

“If he wakes up in the middle of the night and panics, and you hear, can you go check on him? You don’t have to get him calmed all the way, but if you could just try to stop the screaming and give me a call, I’ll help him through it. Sometimes talking things over helps, or just helping him breathe, and I want to make sure he’s okay.”

 

“What if you don’t answer?” Derek asks, for lack of something better to say. He should say he's sorry about his wife, maybe, or about Stiles, but he knows firsthand how empty and obligatory those wishes usually sound. 

 

Besides, he knows a thing or two about nightmares, from his own experience and his pack’s, and they’re never easy to deal with. He needs to know how to best help if there's a situation where Stilinski's unavailable. 

 

“I keep my phone on my night table at full volume, these days,” he says, and suddenly he looks so much more exhausted. “If Stiles ever needs to talk to me, I want to be there, always. Only reason I wouldn’t answer is if I’m on a night shift, and there’s _no_ way I can get a few minutes alone. If that happens…” He runs a hand through his hair, and frowns thoughtfully. “Call Scott. I haven’t said anything to him, but you can bet that boy’s got his phone on too, and he knows how to deal with Stiles.”

 

“I can do that,” Derek agrees. “Definitely.”

 

“You think you can avoid telling Stiles I mentioned it to you? I don’t want him thinking I’m worrying myself gray over here. He’ll worry that I’m worried, and I’ll worry that he’s worried, and he’ll worry that I’m worried that he’s worried-” Derek’s starting to see the family resemblance. “It’s just a vicious cycle.”

 

“Yeah, of course. Whatever’s best for Stiles.”

 

“You’re a good kid, Hale,” the sheriff says, smiling tiredly. “I guess we should get down to business.”

 

* * *

 

“These are them,” the sheriff says, holding up a few pieces of paper for the camera. “They left them at the house, but even when we posted undercover deputies, we never managed to find who was leaving them. I can mail them down to you, if you want them. I already had them tested, though. The guy wasn’t dumb enough to leave any prints, and since they’re typed, they could be from just about anyone.”

 

This is the maddening part. Derek’s incredibly glad Stiles is the son of a sheriff, because otherwise getting prints and things analyzed would involve a lot more hassle with Sheriff Haigh, and Derek just really doesn’t have it in him to deal with that man more than once a month. Still, though, it's crazy to think that between his and Stilinski's sheriff departments, _no one_ is willing to involve themselves. 

 

“They’re backwards for the camera, right?” Stilinski asks.

 

Derek nods.

 

“I can just… read them for you,” Stilinski says. “And I’ll send them out tomorrow, see if those hunters can make anything of it.”

 

“Go ahead,” Derek says, pulling out his notepad.

 

He feels more and more ridiculous every time he uses it, because he has a million facts written down that mean absolutely nothing so far, and he just can’t figure out how they connect.

 

“ _Mr. Stilinski_ ,” the sheriff reads, and Derek thinks this clinical calmness must be the same voice he uses when he reads similar things to victims’ families. “ _If I’m not mistaken, I’ve got my hands on someone that belongs to you. Naturally, I’m sure it’s important to you that you get him back. I thought I’d be courteous and let you know that you most certainly will. The question is—will he be in one piece? Well, that’s all up to him. You may find it the wise choice to be the only officer of the law who knows about this_. _Best Wishes, Kurt.”_

“That’s all he said?” Derek asks.

 

He tries not to sound too pitying, but God, that must be an awful note to get. It sounds creepy just for the sake of sounding that way, and considering Stiles is the only family the sheriff has, reading what could easily be seen as a death threat must've made everything even more painful. 

 

“That’s just the first one,” Stilinski says, shuffling the papers. Something tells Derek he’s read these notes hundreds of times. “Second one: _Mr. Stilinski. I must admit, I didn’t quite plan on corresponding with you again so soon. However, your son seems very concerned that you think he’s dead, and that just won't do. Now, I don’t think myself an unreasonable man, and I have nothing against you. Stiles is alive. As long as he cooperates, he will remain that way. Best Wishes, Kurt.”_

 

“So, you knew he was alive?”

 

Stilinski sighs.

 

“Notes don’t mean anything. There’ve been plenty of cases in the past where the well-being of an already dead captive was used as a bargaining chip. It was probably more worrying than anything. Stiles isn’t exactly… cooperative. I did get the station involved despite him saying not to, because that’s the classic thing these guys like to say, and almost always a bluff. If they need someone for something, they’re not going to kill them just because the police get involved; they knew exactly what they were getting into in the first place, anyway." 

 

Derek doesn’t know what to say. There’s not really much _to_ say. He can’t imagine waking up and finding taunting notes from your son’s captor, especially as a sheriff who knows how rarely these things have a happy ending.

 

“And in the next one,” Stilinski continues, “ _Mr. Stilinski. Your son really does bruise and bleed quite easily, John. Screams easily , too. One might think the child of a sheriff would know how to defend himself a bit better.  Now, while stubbornness and loyalty are traits I admire, I must say that they do begin to grind on one’s nerves after a while. If there are any further developments—and I’m sure there’ll be a breakthrough soon enough—you’ll be the first to know. Best Wishes, Kurt.”_

Derek can picture the sheriff reading each note, over and over and over, maybe showing them to Scott and Melissa if they didn’t have to go into evidence right away, memorizing every word and repeating them to himself. He can picture him coming home after late shifts, having solved everyone’s problems that day but his own, and wanting nothing more than to sleep, only to be awoken by nightmares of a bruised and bleeding Stiles begging to see his father.

 

“That was the last one,” Stilinski says tiredly. “They didn’t help us at all, obviously, but maybe you guys can make something of them. They came on the third, fourteenth, and twenty-sixth days, and then we never heard from him again. If they were in California, I don’t even know how they were getting the notes here.”

 

He sighs again, shaking his head.

 

“Well, we’ll do our best to use them,” Derek assures. “Can I-” he breaks off, frowning. “Can I ask you something, Sheriff?”

 

“Of course,” Stilinski says, but he looks a little wary.

 

“We’re not trying to be presumptuous, but is it possible that Stiles knows a little more about all this than he’s letting on?”

 

Stilinski’s gaze hardens just a little.

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“Well,” Derek says carefully, “we’re not really seeing a motive. We know Stiles said they seemed to be doing it for fun, and because they hate humans, but that doesn’t necessarily fit in with everything else. Why would they kidnap the son of a sheriff, and why would they bother taking him across the country? And those notes mention him being stubbornly loyal about something, so… that means they wanted help doing something, or to get information, or something like that, right?”

 

“What are you suggesting?” 

 

Stilinski’s expression remains purposefully stoic, and Derek thinks absently that he’s probably good at interrogations.

 

“The information option seems most likely. And if he had information, and he was being ‘loyal’, that makes it sound like he might’ve been protecting someone. Do you know anyone he would need to protect?”

 

“No.”

 

The answer is firm and unyielding, and really doesn’t leave much room for argument.

 

“Alright,” Derek says, dropping it for the moment. “Well, there’s another thing; when Stiles first called you, he mentioned something about a woman who was working with the alphas helping him escape. We asked him to tell the story of how he escaped to the hunters the other day, though, and he didn’t mention anything about a woman. Do you remember him saying that?”

 

“I do,” Stilinski says stiffly.

 

“Did he ever mention anything else about the woman to you?”

 

“Did you tell Stiles you were calling me?” the sheriff asks, instead of answering.

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, surprised. “I mentioned it to him last night.”

 

“He texted me last night. Said that you were.”

 

Stilinski furrows his brow, seemingly thinking hard.

 

“Mr. Stilinski?” Derek says tentatively.

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“If Stiles isn’t telling us something, he’s not going to be in any trouble. We just want to get to the bottom of this. Say—just hypothetically—that he’s protecting someone. And maybe you are, too. We don’t necessarily need to know all the details about it, but anything you think you can tell us would be helpful. I'm sure you of all people know that Stiles needs to be protected too. If we don’t catch these alphas, there’s no guarantee they won’t come back and try to hurt him again. If there’s any information you can give me, the whole pack doesn’t need to know. I’ll keep it between myself and the Argents, if that makes you feel better. And Stiles doesn’t have to know you told me, either. I’m sure he’d understand it’s for his own good.”

 

John stares at him for a long time, his lips pressed thin.

 

Finally, finally, he says, “Marin Morrell.”

 

“What?”

 

“Marin Morrell is the woman who helped him escape,” Stilinski says carefully. He’s frowning, like it pains him to reveal any of this. “She was the emissary of the alpha pack, but she left Stiles a piece of metal in the back of the transport van, and he sawed his ropes off and picked the lock. She might be easier to track down than the alphas, because she’s only human. She seemed to want to help. But Derek, you can’t tell my son I told you—it’s only going to make him more worried. Let me talk to him about it myself, first.”

 

Derek just stares at him with wide eyes.

 

“What?” Stilinski asks, suddenly worried. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Marin Morrell,” Derek says slowly, “is my emissary’s sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your thoughts on this are very much appreciated!


	26. Chapter 26

By the time Derek’s off the phone with Stiles’ father, his head is pounding. Apparently this has a hell of a lot more to do with him and his pack than he thought, and a lot of things that seemed like coincidences aren’t.

 

Despite the family knowing Deaton since before Derek was even born, he’s never heard about Deaton’s sister till meeting her the other day. She seemed so calm and unassuming—Derek never would’ve guessed in a million years that she could be emissary to the alphas. Although, clearly that’s the point. She seems innocent enough, and one would need a level head to keep so many alphas from tearing each other apart.

 

Derek throws his phone down on the couch in frustration after he’s called Deaton’s cell for the third time, only to go directly to voicemail. He paces the living room for an unhealthily long amount of time, till Deaton finally calls back.

 

“Derek?" he asks. "Is everything alright?” 

 

“I need you to come to the house.”

 

There’s no way he can explain all this over the phone.

 

“Is there an emergency?”

 

“Alan, just get down here.”

 

“Is Stiles alright?”

 

“He’s _fine_ , but I need to talk to you.”

 

“Derek,” Deaton says, infuriatingly calm as always. “I’m performing open heart surgery in thirty minutes. Is there an emergency?”

 

“It-” No. No, it feels like one, but it’s really not. It’s been days, and Morrell could literally be halfway across the world by now, if she wanted. “I guess not, but just… try to hurry.”

 

“You want me to hurry my open heart surgery?” 

 

“Well don’t _kill_ the guy. Just- after the surgery, don’t hang around for the rest of your shift.”

 

“Alright,” Deaton agrees. “Please try to calm down, Derek. I’m sure whatever it is will be fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

* * *

 

Derek determinedly takes the stairs at a normal pace when he hears Deaton enter the house hours later, but nevertheless gets there in time to meet him in the foyer.

 

“I assume you want to speak in private?” Deaton says, setting his bag down by the door.

 

“Basement,” Derek says, and Deaton follows him down.

 

Deaton stands against a wall, and Derek leans forward against the metal table.

 

It still reeks ever so slightly of fear down here, but he tries not to think about it.

 

“Well?”

 

“When was the last time you saw your sister?” Derek asks.

 

Deaton frowns.

 

“Marin? We just saw her the other day.”

 

“Before that.”

 

“Three years ago.”

 

“Three _years_?”

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“Why haven’t you seen her in so long?”

 

“Not everyone lives in the same house as their sister, Derek.”

 

As reasonable as that is, Derek’s sure he’s evading the question.

 

“Deaton.”

 

“Marin and I aren’t necessarily on the best terms. Why do you need to know? Is this about her visit with Stiles the other day?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“Do you know what she wanted to talk to him about?”

 

Apparently satisfied with that small bit of information, Deaton says, “No. She showed up at the hospital and insisted she needed to speak with him.”

 

“And that didn’t seem odd to you?”

 

“It didn’t seem odd to you,” Deaton points out coolly.

 

Which, okay, is true. As a general rule, Derek trusts Deaton, so if his sister had some reason for wanting to talk to Stiles, and it managed to lure him out of the basement, then Derek wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Turns out the gift horse was more of a Trojan horse.

 

Ah, how proud Peter would be of his idioms.

 

“You didn’t even ask her, though?”

 

“Derek, if it’s not clear, I tend to stay uninvolved in my sister’s affairs.”

 

“She’s an emissary like you?”

 

“For less time, but yes.”

 

“And does she have a pack?”

 

“Last time I heard, yes.”

 

“Do you know anything about them?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you know who their alpha was?”

 

“ _Derek_.”

 

Deaton would never take that tone with Derek’s mother, but he’s practically an uncle to him, and Derek feels a small pang of guilt. It’s really not fair to interrogate Deaton—he’s been with them for thirty years, so it’s not like he’s suddenly turned on them.

 

“Sorry, I’m just-”

 

“Stressed?” he suggests.

 

“Understatement.”

 

“Are you looking for advice?”

 

“More like for answers.”

 

Deaton gives a small smile.

 

“Why don’t you try asking the right questions, then?”

 

“Listen, Alan," Derek sighs. "This is hard to believe, but... I have sources telling me that Marin is emissary to the alpha pack. Is there any way that could be true?”

 

Deaton is not a man who easily loses his cool. Derek’s never heard him yell, and he rarely gets angry. Now is no exception, but he does look much more fazed than he usually is by bad news.

 

The small smile drops, and he crosses his arms.

 

“We may not see eye to eye on everything, Derek, but she’s not evil.”

 

“I’m not trying to say she is,” except yes, actually, that’s exactly what he’s saying and he’s incredibly pissed off about it, “but is there any way she could be working with them? Any reason?”

 

Deaton sighs.

 

“If she thought there would be some benefit to it, it’s a possibility.”

 

“What kind of benefit?”

 

“Marin’s main concern has long been keeping the balance between the supernatural and human worlds. She’s a good ten years younger than me, and the wave of emissaries at her college were all a bit radical. They believed it was their duty to maintain the peace. Keeping the balance is important, of course, particularly back during the war, but that was a long time ago. Sometimes it was hard to tell if their ideas would do more harm than good. If she thought the alpha pack would throw something—the government, the peace, something—off center badly enough, she might interfere.”

 

“But she would be trying to do the right thing?”

 

“Trying,” Deaton says. “Not necessarily succeeding. In Stiles’ case, it doesn’t seem like she succeeded.” He shrugs. “Maybe she is. There may be some bigger picture we’re not seeing. It’s always hard to tell with Marin. Do you know what she wanted to speak with Stiles about?”

 

Stilinski, after explaining everything to Derek and being assured over and over that he would trust Deaton with his own life, and that really, they’d already trusted him with Stiles’, had agreed he could share the details with him in case he could help in any way.

 

“She knew the alphas had Stiles, and didn’t do anything to stop it.”

 

Deaton’s lips thin.

 

“Why not?”

 

“She just said what you said, that there’s some bigger picture. We pretty much guessed that already, but we still don’t know what it is, and John Stilinski swears up and down that he doesn’t know, either. She didn’t… take part, but she knew more or less what they were doing. I guess some opportune moment to let Stiles go came up, and she helped him escape. That's what she wanted to tell him.”

 

Derek goes on to explain everything John had told him, and what he had managed to piece together himself from things Stiles had said. He talks about how she told the pack how ruthless Derek was, which in turn scared Stiles, but that it wasn't enough for the alphas to let him go, and about her helping him escape when they crossed Derek’s—or as she probably thought of it, Deaton’s—territory. He mentions how that’s what Morrell had wanted to talk to Stiles about, and how she convinced him that the Hales weren’t bad people, that she had even apparently said her own pack were bad people, and that Stiles may think she is too.

 

“At least she’s not unaware,” Deaton says wryly. “This is extreme, even for her, but I can’t say I’m surprised, Derek. If there’s some greater good to be protected, she would likely put many lives above one.”

 

“On the bright side,” Derek sighs, “she told Stiles she’d protect his father, Scott, and Melissa. How, I have no idea. That’s why they’re not coming down here, though.”

 

“He trusts her?” Deaton asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“More like he’s afraid of disobeying her. According to his father, he thinks if any of them leave New York, the alphas might come for them to get revenge. She has some sort of plan to counteract whatever the alphas want, apparently.”

 

“So no more kidnapping for the sake of balance?” Deaton asks flatly.

 

“Not of people Stiles knows, at least.”

 

“Well unfortunately,” Deaton says, “she didn’t tell me where she was off to, and I didn’t bother to ask. I believe she mentioned staying at Motel California? Some rundown place, quite a bit away from here. But I’d say the chances of her being in state still are pretty slim. And the chances that she wasn’t lying in case this got back to me are even slimmer.”

 

“Do you have any idea where she might be? A place she usually puts down roots, or…?”

 

“She doesn’t tell me these things for a good reason,” Deaton sighs. “She’s lived just about everywhere, and she’s just as likely to pick someplace she hasn’t lived. I’m sorry, Derek.”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“Not your fault, Alan. Thanks for trying.”

 

Deaton nods.

 

“Nevertheless, I’d like to give Stiles a quick apology, and check him out as long as I’m here.”

 

“I’m actually under strict orders from Stiles’ father not to tell anyone but you and the Argents about this. He promised Stiles he wouldn’t tell me.”

 

Deaton frowns, and Derek thinks he’s about to get a lecture on the keeping secrets, but Deaton just says, “Alright. I’d still like to check him out, though. His stitches are looking good, and his ankle should be okay soon enough. It won’t be terribly long before he’s up and about. At least, with crutches.”

 

“How long is terribly long?”

 

“I won’t know till I check.”

 

“Do you think you can actually hold off for an hour or so? He’s doing something with Boyd up there right now, and it’s good for him to interact with the pack. Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

 

“Not like I have anywhere to go now that I took my shift off,” Deaton says. “If you make it chamomile tea, you’ve got a deal.”

 

“I think we only have mint,” Derek says over his shoulder, starting for the stairs.

 

“You really are trying to make my life difficult today, Derek. I suppose it’s still a deal, though. I’m never one to turn down a good cup of tea.”

 

* * *

 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks.

 

He’s sitting in Stiles’ new chair, the third person to do so today—the first was Cora, who brought him water for his pain meds and stayed to chat, and the second was Boyd, who dropped off a pile of well-worn books, and stayed to read one while Stiles looked through the others.

 

Derek looks like he’s trying very hard not to look pissed about something, but isn’t doing a fantastic job. Stiles pretends his toes aren’t curling under the sheets.

 

“Pretty good,” he says. “Still not totally convinced Deaton’s meds aren’t really highly illegal, both because they feel like heaven when you’re on them, and when they start to wear off, you crash.”

 

“But you’re good now?”

 

“As good as it gets, at least,” Stiles says, propping himself up on his pillows. “Feeling pretty fine, no worries.”

 

“That’s good,” Derek says nodding.

 

Then he frowns, furrowing his brow.

 

“Um, are _you_ feeling okay?” Stiles asks tentatively. 

 

Instead of answering, Derek practically blurts, “What about emotionally?” Stiles blinks in surprise, and Derek clears his throat. “I mean, are you feeling alright? Coping okay and… everything?”

 

_Oh. Oh, um…_

 

The real answer is no, not at all. No, I threw up in the bathroom this morning because I caught sight of my back in the mirror. No, I always hear their voices in my dreams, and outside my dreams sometimes, too. No, I’m worried as hell about Scott and my father and Melissa and if they’re really safest in New York and how it’ll be my fault if they’re killed for not keeping them close to me. No, I'm really not okay, not at all.

 

“I guess so?” Stiles says. “I mean, y’know, a lotta shit happened. But I’m dealing.”

 

He shrugs.

 

Derek, if possible, frowns harder.

 

“Dealing?”

 

“I mean, yeah. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies,” he has the sudden urge to add ‘it’s compromise that moves us along’, but Scott is probably a bigger fan of his randomly blurted song lyrics, and _Scott_ isn’t even a fan, “but it’s alright, I guess. You guys being able to come near me is a huge step up, and it took way less time than I thought it would. Plus, that’s really good with Scott and all. I felt pretty terrible for a few days there, and I know he did too. And like, I love him, obviously, so I hated that he might be thinking I don’t wanna be around him.”

 

There, that’s a pretty positive spin.

 

Derek nods, like that’s a more acceptable answer.

 

“I’m sure he would understand either way,” he says. “He sounds like a good boyfriend.”

 

Stiles chokes out a laugh and claps a hand over his mouth.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, through a fit of laughter, “Scott sounds like a good _what_?”

 

“Boyfriend?” Derek says slowly.

 

“Oh my _God_."

 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

“Scott is _not_ my boyfriend. Why would you think that?”

 

Derek suddenly looks horribly embarrassed, so Stiles tries to quell his laughter.

 

“I didn’t really think about it at all,” he says. “Erica happened to mention it last night, and it made sense. You always say you love him and everything…”

 

“Dude, _yeah_ , and I also love curly fries and my ’76 Jeep, but you don’t see me dating them.”

 

If Stiles isn’t mistaken, Derek’s ears are turning slightly pink.

 

“I love Scott,” he clarifies, “like you love puppies. He’s sweet, and adorable, and the source of at least 65% of the good on the planet, but dating him? Yeah, I’m good. He’s like my brother. Our parents might date someday, if anything. We’ve been trying to set those two up since forever. But uh, me and Scotty? Nope. I’d be lying if I said Erica was the first person to assume that, but it's always pretty funny. We had a professor who thought we were dating too, for like, _four_ months, so at least you guys aren't him.”

 

Stiles has to admit, he’s kind of glad for the assumption—the conversation has been spiraling towards deep and depressing pretty fast, and Derek looks a tiny bit less tense about whatever’s pissing him off, even if it’s only because the look has been replaced by embarrassment.

 

But hey, whatever. Stiles will take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we all needed a few seconds of happiness at the end there, hmm? ;)
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the warning tags come into play here, so if any of them might be triggering for you, please make sure to check the end notes to see which ones are in this chapter!

“This isn’t fair,” Stiles grumbles. “Like, _at all_. You’ve probably been practicing while-” He cuts off, not wanting to let the slipup ruin the mood. “Besides, I can’t do it right now, so this proves nothing. I demand a rematch when I can get my hands on some.”

 

Scott gives him a thumbs down with the hand he’s not using to hold the phone while they FaceTime.

 

He’d probably give a better explanation of why he doesn’t agree with the idea if his mouth weren’t crammed three-quarters the way full with gummy worms.

 

“Um, _yeah_. It’s totally unfair that-” Isaac appears outside Stiles’ door, jerking his thumb down the hall, a silent ‘I can come back later’, but Stiles waves him in, “-you’re doing it without me! Inaccurate results! Gotta keep everything constant.”

 

“Nuh-uh!” Scott manages, shoving in another gummy worm.

 

“ _Yuh-huh_ ,” Stiles insists. “This is Isaac, by the way,” he adds, angling the phone so Isaac’s in the picture, too.

 

Scott coughs in surprise, sending at least five gummy worms spewing across the room. Stiles snorts and Isaac grabs the arms of his chair, as though stopping himself from getting up to help a guy who’s across the country.

 

“You good, man?” Stiles asks, and Scott gives him a thumbs up, which smoothly transitions into flipping him off as he continues to cough. “Good. Isaac, this is my best bud Scott, you remember him, right?”

 

Scott turns his head away, apparently not thinking to just put the phone down instead, and spits more gummy worms into his free hand, trying to work them out of the hollow of his cheek. It’s about as attractive as it sounds.

 

“Uh… do I want to ask?” Isaac says, eyes flitting between Stiles and the phone.

 

“Totally,” Stiles says. “It’s a beautiful story, really. Once upon a time, two college guys were drunk, bored, and broke, and lo and behold, Gummy Wars was born.”

 

Scott groans.

 

“We had like twenty packages of those cheap dollar store gummy worms on hand—don’t ask—and somehow ended up betting we could each fit more than the other in our mouths without chewing. I’m the reigning champ,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder, “and Scott bet me that he could beat my record of fifty-two.” Isaac’s eyes bug out a little, a mix of wonder and disgust. It’s pretty hysterical. “But like I was just saying, it’s technically _cheating_ , because we’re supposed to play at the same time. Doesn’t matter, though, because now he owes me five bucks.”

 

He reaches out, and Isaac halfheartedly high fives the air.

 

“Isn’t that kind of interference?” he asks.

 

“Thank you,” Scott huffs. He’s managed to compose himself, and has wiped his spit-covered hand on his jeans—Derek’s right, Stiles doesn’t know _why_ he’s passing up on the wonderful opportunity to date Scott—and is blushing a brilliant red. “Definitely an interference. And a dick move,” he says pointedly.

 

Stiles only grins.

 

“What? Nah, man. Isaac doesn’t think you’re any less hot after that, right, Isaac?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Right,” Stiles agrees for him, and Scott rubs at his temple. “So did you need something?”

 

“Just wanted to hang out,” Isaac says. “Don’t think anyone’s been up here since yesterday, right? If you guys are talking, though, I can really-”

 

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, waving him off. “We’re not doing anything terribly important, as you can probably see. Cool with you, Scott?”

 

“Sure,” Scott agrees. “The guy’s already seen me spew gummy spit. If he stays, maybe I can distract him from thinking about it.”

 

Stiles laughs, and Isaac smiles, ducking his head.

 

“I don’t know if I can ever eat another gummy worm after that,” he says, “so a distraction would be nice.”

 

“Well, how about… I’ve known Stiles for seventeen years, and I’ve seen him spew milk from his nose no less than eight times,” Scott says conversationally.

 

“Hey! At _least_ six of those were when we were little kids, man.”

 

“He’s right,” Scott says, smirking playfully. “But I’ve also seen him spew beer.”

 

_“Dude!”_

 

Isaac laughs, and Scott grins, pleased with himself.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Stiles hangs up with Scott and Isaac heads to bed. The two remind him even more of each other, now that he's seen them talk, and he had a pretty great time hanging out with them. 

 

It's late now, though, and he finally settles into bed, drifting off pretty easily. 

 

He gets a few hours of sound sleep before the nightmare hits. 

 

* * *

 

 

_“He wanted this, you know,” Kali says._

_She sounds sympathetic._

_“He did,” Ethan agrees, from where he’s got a foot planted on Stiles’ back. “Begged us to do it.”_

_“It’s all his fault. Did you know that?” she purrs. “That this what he_ wanted _?”_

_“Goes to show how many shits he gives about you.”_

_“If he loved you at all, he would’ve let it be him here instead.”_

_“But he chose himself over you. He would_ always _choose himself over you.”_

_Stiles is laying on the floor, limp and bloody, with fresh, searing burns covering his back. The pain he’s in is beyond agonizing, beyond excruciating, beyond_ words _—but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that Kali and Ethan aren’t talking to him._

_They’re talking to his father._

_“See, we asked him,” Kali says, sounding oh-so regretful, like she simply can’t help doing this, “if he’d rather it be him or you up here. He picked you.”_

_His dad is chained to the wall by his wrists, blood seeping through his tattered sheriff's shirt._

_Stiles wants to say no. No, he didn’t! He never wanted this! He put up with it! They asked him so, so many times if he wanted his father to take his place, or Melissa, or even Scott, but no! No, he’d said no every time! Spat at them and told them to fuck off and endured the pain! He never- he_ never _said this is what he wanted! He wants to scream it, promise his dad that no, of course not, he would never let anyone hurt him!_

_But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a strangled cough._

_“He can’t even bring himself to deny it,” Kali sighs._

_She smiles a full-fanged smile and extends her claws, raking them down his dad’s chest._

_Blood pours from the wounds, and each individual drop seems to reverberate as it hits the ground._

_“You’d be surprised how easy it was to make him cave,” she continues causally. Stiles watches in silent horror as five bloody lines become ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. “All we really had to do was ask.”_

_“It’s-” his father is cut off by his own cough, sending blood dripping down his chin, “You’re- Stiles, I know they’re- lying. Stiles- just- say they’re lying.”_

_Kali drags her hands up the length of both his arms, then idly flicks the blood from her claws._

_Stiles makes another desperate, muted noise._

_“I- I won’t- won’t be mad, kid,” his dad promises, even as blood flows from his mouth, his arms, his chest. “It’s okay.”_

_Kali settles a hand on the side of his neck, almost caressing it for a moment, before all the sudden jerking her claws clean through, tearing out his jugular._

_His father chokes, straining horribly against the chains holding him up, but he doesn’t seem able to die._

_“It’s okay,” he somehow manages, but it comes out garbled, and Stiles can see all the muscle and tissue in his throat, convulsing and pouring forth even more blood as he speaks. “It’s- it’s okay, Stiles. I’m n-not mad.”_

_Stiles feels like he’s going to be sick, watching his dad assure him over and over again that he doesn’t blame him for the betrayal. Stiles had_ betrayed _his own father._

_But no! No, he hadn’t. Had he? Is he even lucid enough to remember? Had he really begged the alphas to take his father instead? He hardly remembers anything past the sweltering pain of the flames against his back, but… No, no, he couldn’t have… he_ wouldn’t _have-_

_“If you want us to let him go, all you have to do is ask, Stiles,” Ethan says, grinding his heel into Stiles’ back. “Do you want to take his place?”_

_Stiles tries, he tries so desperately to say yes, to beg them to release his dad and go back to torturing him, instead, but he can’t_ speak _._

_“This is what he wanted, John,” Kali says. “This is what he_ begged _for.”_

_Stiles wants to deny it, to look away, to do something, anything, but all he can do is lie there, watching as Kali rends a clawed hand down the side of his father’s face._

_His dad—still somehow,_ somehow _, hanging on—looks down at him, and with a last, hitching breath, whispers, “Why?”_

_And then Kali plunges a hand straight into his chest, tearing out his still-beating heart._

_As soon as his dad slumps forward, dead and blood-soaked, Stiles’ voice comes back._

_“No! Dad! Dad, no- no, no, no, no, nonononono! Dad- I didn’t- I wouldn’t- I- I_ promise _, I- I’m so sorry- I- Dad! No! DAD!”_

 

* * *

 

“No! I- I didn’t! I _didn’t!_ Dad!”

 

Derek turns over in bed, woken by the sound of muffled shouting from next door.

 

John had just mentioned nightmares yesterday, and now Stiles is having one? He supposes since it’s the first one since Stiles’ first night in his room that it was bound to happen again eventually, but still…

 

With sleep-stiff limbs, Derek climbs out of bed, quietly opening his door and slipping out into the hallway. He pauses for a moment to listen, but all the betas’ heartbeats and breathing rates are even, indicating that they’re still asleep, which is a relief, considering how heavily the Sheriff implied Stiles wouldn’t want anyone to know if he was having nightmares. On the downside, _Stiles_ ’ heartbeat is skyrocketing, and his breathing is quick and uneven.

 

Derek slowly opens Stiles’ bedroom door and steps inside, shutting it behind him. The curtains are open, allowing moonlight to stream into the room, so he doesn’t bother blinding himself by turning on the light.

 

Now that he’s here, he’s not actually sure what to do. Having dealt with plenty of nightmares from both himself and the pack before, he knows everyone handles them differently—some people need contact, others need their space; some want to be woken gently, some want to be snapped right out of it; some want to talk through it, some want to be left alone.

 

Well, first thing is waking him, and somehow, Derek doesn’t think an alpha snapping him out of his nightmare about other alphas will be terribly helpful.

 

Derek creeps over to Stiles’ bed, looking down at him.

 

He’s not talking anymore, but he’s tossing and turning fitfully, which can’t be doing his injuries any favors.

 

Derek reaches out a careful hand, setting it on Stiles' shoulder, stilling him.

 

“Stiles?” he whispers loudly. “Stiles, wake up.”

 

Stiles’ face scrunches up and he whimpers, yanking away burrowing farther into his pillows.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says, louder this time. “Stiles, you’re dreaming.” He shakes his shoulder, making sure to be mindful of the bandages. “Hey! Stiles, _wake up_.”

 

Nothing.

 

He sighs, steeling himself.

 

“Stiles!” he says, giving his shoulder another shake. “Wake up!”

 

Stiles sits bolt upright in bed, and his face immediately contorts in pain as he upsets all the injuries Derek had been trying to avoid. The look of pain quickly switches to fear when he turns his head and sees Derek standing there.

 

Derek’s sure he’s associating him with memories of those first few days here, and something about that makes his stomach drop.

 

“Hey, it’s fine,” he says, quickly retracting his hand and stepping away. “It’s fine.”

 

As soon as he’s gone Stiles stops paying him any attention, instead starting to take in huge gasps of breath.

 

For a moment Derek thinks he’s just collecting himself, that everything will be okay soon and he can get him on the phone with his dad, but he quickly realizes Stiles isn’t just breathing; he’s hyperventilating, and mumbling furiously under his breath.

 

“I- I didn’t- I didn’t do it, I- I did-didn’t- I- I never- I _swear_ , I-”

 

Derek has no idea what he’s talking about, only that he’s apparently having one of the panic attacks John mentioned, and he has no idea how to stop it.

 

“I’m not- I wouldn’t- he kn-knows I wouldn’t, I- he _knows_ -”

 

“Stiles, I’m going to call your dad, okay?” Derek says, holding up his phone. “It’s going to be fine.”

 

Stiles’ eyes lock on him again, and he shakes his head vigorously. His jaw is working, but no words come out immediately, and if his heart rate is anything to go by, that upsets him even more.

 

 _“No!”_ he finally chokes out. “No- no Dad- don’t- _Derek_ , don’t- don't call my Dad, I’m- ‘m’fine- I’m-”

 

He’s not fine, though, not at all. He’s trembling violently, and breathing too fast, and _panicking_ , and-

 

And Derek is supposed to call John. He promised that he would.

 

“Stiles, it’s just your father,” he says, trying to keep his eye on both Stiles and the phone as he searches for the contact. “He’s-”

 

“Don’t!” Stiles insists, reaching out a desperate, shaky hand. “D-don’t, Derek, please- _please_ don’t- I’ll stop, I’m sorry- I-”

 

A sob rips through him, and he actually lurches forward with the effort.

 

“Please, you can- can go back to bed- I- I swear- just- _please_ don’t call him, I-”

 

“It’s not that,” Derek says, somewhat horrified that he thinks he’s only here because Stiles had interrupted his sleep. “Just- how about Scott? I’ll call Scott, if that’s-”

 

“No!” Stiles says, waving the outstretched hand at him. “Scott’ll- Scott’ll tell Dad, and- and- please, _don’t_. I-”

 

He claps a hand over his mouth, muffling the next sob that escapes him.

 

Derek watches him, horribly torn. He’d assured John he would call if Stiles had a panic attack, but Stiles is an adult, and if he doesn’t want him to _this_ badly…

 

Still, he needs help, and that’s really not negotiable.

 

He’s got his knees curled up to his chest now, rocking back and forth and trembling, still breathing harshly, and Derek needs to do something other than stand here and stare. Derek briefly considers waking Isaac, but knows Stiles probably wants as few people to see him like this as possible.

 

“Stiles, I’m going to come over there, okay?” he asks tentatively.

 

Stiles doesn’t answer, but he also makes no move to stop him, so Derek slowly takes a step closer. Then another, and another, and another till he’s standing at the edge of Stiles’ bed.

 

Derek was always terrible at dealing with his own nightmares, so he thinks about dealing with Isaac’s, instead.

 

“You need to breathe,” he tells him firmly. Stiles doesn’t even look at him. “Stiles, listen to me. I need you to breathe.”

 

He wants to say that if he doesn’t start breathing properly soon, he’ll have to call his father, but certainly doesn’t want to use it as a threat.

 

“Stiles,” he says, reaching out a cautious hand. Stiles takes another hitching breath as Derek makes contact with his arm. “You need to breathe. Your heart rate is out of control, and you have to try to calm down. Okay?”

 

Derek gently tugs at his arm, and Stiles stays firmly where he is for a few moments before following Derek’s lead and turning so that his back is leaning against the wall, and they’re facing each other.

 

“Breathe,” Derek instructs, inhaling deeply, and slowly releasing it. “Can you do that?”

 

He does it again and again, trying to get Stiles to join him. He shifts his hand from Stiles’ arm to his left knee, so he can have a little more personal space.

 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and rocks forward, but when he rocks back, his eyes are open again, and he takes a shaky breath in.

 

“Hey, good,” Derek murmurs. Cora had once joked the only time she’s ever seen him be gentle is when dealing with nightmares and small animals, and maybe she wasn’t so far off the mark. “Just like that. In and out.”

 

Stiles is still shaking and occasionally mumbling under his breath about how he didn’t do something, but at least his breathing is somewhat controlled now. Derek breathes in and out slowly, whispering words of reassurance in between, and Stiles follows his lead, though his breaths are much shallower at first. As the minutes tick by, Stiles’ breathing begins to match Derek’s own, and after many, many breaths, he finally seems to be doing okay.

 

“That’s good,” Derek says, nodding encouragingly. “You’re fine.”

 

Stiles huffs a laugh, short and wet.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m just dandy.”

 

“You’re breathing,” Derek offers.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but Derek takes it as a good sign.

 

He’s not quaking anymore so much as lightly trembling, and his heartbeat has calmed considerably. Still, there’s cold sweat on his forehead and drenching his T-shirt, and the smell of fear in the air dominates the room.

 

“Do you want to call your dad now?” Derek suggests.

 

Maybe now that Stiles is feeling a little better, John can help him get back to bed.

 

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head and letting out another little breath. “If I called him every time I had a nightmare, the guy would never sleep.”

 

It hits Derek like a freight train.

 

It’s not that John happened to mention nightmares and Stiles had had one the next night. No, it's that Stiles has been having nightmares _every_ night, or almost, and Derek just hasn’t been waking up to them.

 

Stiles seems to realize exactly what he’s said at the same time Derek does, because he shakes his head again and says, “I’m fine. Really. You can go back to bed.”

 

Derek could, sure, but even if he’s breathing right again, that in no way equates to being _fine_.

 

Besides… Stiles’ insistence not to call his father was clearly caused by something much more deep-seated than not wanting to wake him this late.

 

Derek’s considering asking about it when he realizes he’s still got a grip on Stiles' knee. He slowly pulls the hand away, and glances down at the edge of the bed, then back to Stiles, silently asking for permission.

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

Derek sits down facing him, one foot tucked under himself on the edge of the bed, the other planted on the floor.

 

They’re both silent for a few moments, the only sounds in the room being Stiles’ breathing, still just a little too loud.

 

Finally, Derek asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Stiles stares at him for a moment, before saying, “Uh, nah, don’t worry about it.”

 

His heart skips a beat on the lie.

 

Derek doesn’t want to pry, but he also doubts he’ll be able to rest easily tonight knowing Stiles is sitting awake next door.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I- well, I don’t like to talk about mine, usually, but some people do.”

 

“ _You_ have nightmares?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Which, yeah… Derek knows how strange it must sound to an outsider. He’s a big, buff, powerful alpha, but while they’re not nearly as frequent anymore, he can’t deny having the occasional nightmare.

 

“Everyone does once in a while,” he says, instead of trying to explain anything about Kate. That’s quite literally the last thing either of them needs right now. “Talking could help.”

 

“It’s stupid,” Stiles says. “Like, really stupid. You really don’t have to worry about-”

 

“Nothing that happened to you is stupid,” Derek interrupts. “It’s traumatic.”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Hale,” Stiles says. Yep, there’s that eye roll again, but it seems almost… fond? Fondly exasperated, at least.

 

“Well, I don’t have to be a therapist,” Derek says. “I’ll just sit here and shut up and you can tell me about it.”

 

That- _that_ is something Derek is good at. Emotional conversations aren’t necessarily his forte, but sitting and listening? Yeah, he’s got that down pat.

 

“I’ll uh… humor you, if you really wanna hear it.”

 

A little relief pools into his scent at the words. 

 

Derek nods, waiting for him to go on.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, blowing out a breath. “Um, well, one time, like more towards the beginning, Ethan sorta kicked the shit out of me, and then when I was on the floor, Kali brought out a lighter and started, um… burning lines across my back. Deaton thinks it’s some sort of miracle they never got infected. They don’t really hurt anymore, but anyway, yeah, it um…” he drums his fingers against his knee, “it hurt like a bitch at the time, obviously. And they used to do this _thing_. They would offer to take Melissa or Dad instead, and send me home. And I mean, they were crazy enough that they just might’ve been telling the truth, but who knows? Not like I ever said yes, anyway. Anything that happened to me would just… just be _infinitely_ worse to imagine happening to one of them.

 

“But um, anyway, I dreamt about the time they burned my back, which was… as fun as it sounds. And then it turned from a memory into a nightmare. Suddenly they had Dad chained up instead of me.” It seems that now that Stiles has begun rambling he can’t stop. He’s fidgeting a lot more, looking anywhere but at Derek, but he keeps going. “And Kali was dragging her claws down his chest, and arms, and face, and she and Ethan were telling him how I begged for, uh… for them to hurt him instead of me. And I wanted to tell him it wasn’t true, but for some reason—well I guess because, y’know, _nightmare_ —I couldn’t speak, and Dad just kept saying it was okay and that he didn’t blame me, which just made it worse, because he _should_ blame me if I had done that, and- And yeah. Then Kali ripped his throat out, and he just kept _talking_ , and he asked me why, and then she uh- she ripped his heart out, too. And then you woke me up. I couldn’t remember if I had actually asked to switch places with him or not while I was dreaming, but- but I didn’t. So it’s fine now, I guess.”

 

Derek is silent for a moment, just processing.

 

“We’re going to catch them,” he says finally.

 

Stiles looks surprised, like he was expecting the classic, but not terribly helpful, ‘I’m sorry that happened’ that Derek had almost given.

 

“All of them,” Derek says. “No matter how long it takes, or how smart they think they are. We’re going to catch them. They’re going to spend the rest of their lives in jail, if they don’t give the Argents a reason to kill them first.”

 

Stiles seems to not know what to say.

 

“That’s…” He swallows hard. “Thank you.”

 

Derek nods, looking at him seriously.

 

“Are you in pain?” he asks, trying to steer them away from the nightmare.

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

“The painkiller dosage doesn’t exactly account for me reeling around my bed. But I mean, it’s whatever. When I get back to sleep it’ll stop.”

 

Before he can overthink it, Derek reaches out a hand, palm up.

 

“Uhhh…?”

 

“I can take your pain,” he says. “Not if you don’t want me to. I know you don’t like being touched that much, but-”

 

“It’s not that,” Stiles says, looking at him uneasily. “I mean logically, I know you’re just a person. Especially right now. I can, um, deal with it. But I don’t want you to have to feel the pain, either.”

 

“It’s not as bad for the person taking it,” Derek points out.

 

“Yeah, that’s what Scott always says. I’m kind of a klutz, and he’s got a big heart, but I still never let him do it.”

 

“I’ve been doing it for my pack since I was a teenager. It’s not a big deal.”

 

“Well yeah, but your pack is different,” Stiles reasons.

 

If he were anyone else, Derek would probably just grab his stupid hand and _steal_ all his pain.

 

“Stiles,” he sighs. “It’s four in the morning. We take pain from people we care about. You’ve been living here for more than a week, and we all already care about you. Just let me help.”

 

Stiles huffs another tired laugh, but he holds out his hand.

 

“Hey, if you want my pain, I’m more than happy to give it,” he says. “Whatever floats your boat.”

 

Derek reaches out the rest of the way, taking the hand that’s still shaking ever-so-slightly in his own.

 

It takes one second, two, before black lines start to trace down Stiles’ arm and up Derek’s, and he makes a point of not wincing when it initially hits him.

 

Stiles slowly relaxes against the wall as the pain drains out of him, till he’s slumped there. After a minute or so, his hand stops shaking.

 

“That feels as good as I remember,” he murmurs, sounding far more relaxed. “This is probably some kind of dark magic. I bet a puppy dies every time you do this.”

 

“Morbid.”

 

“It’s the only way.”  

 

“Worth it?”

 

“Soooo worth it,” he hums, as the last of the pain leaves him, and Derek feels a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

They sit in relative silence for another ten minutes, before he finally says, “Do you think you’re okay now?”

 

“Hmmm?” Stiles asks. “Oh,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. Derek notes that it's the first time he's seemed fully relaxed around him--well, maybe he's not _totally_ relaxed, but at least Derek isn't the cause. “Oh, um, yeah. Thank you. That was… that was good. I can totally get back to sleep now. I, uh- didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “I’m a light sleeper.”

 

“Regardless.”

 

“Well, it wasn’t a problem,” Derek says. “I’m gonna go grab something. You mind waiting here a few minutes?”

 

“It’s,” Stiles says, glancing at the alarm clock, “4:52 in the morning. I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

 

“Good,” Derek says, slipping his hand out of Stiles’. Oddly enough, he finds himself missing the feeling. God, he must be really tired. “I’ll be right back.”

 

He creeps out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

 

He returns a few minutes later, carrying instant hot chocolate.

 

“In the summer?” Stiles asks, but he’s smiling a little as he breathes in the scent from the mug Derek hands him.

 

“My mom used to make it when anyone had nightmares when we were kids,” Derek says, shrugging. “Figured it’s still a pretty good trick. I’m going to head to bed, though, if you’re…”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nodding vigorously. “Definitely. I’ve kept you up long enough. Besides, I’m practically boneless right now, so I should probably get some rest soon.”

 

“Alright,” Derek says, heading for the door. He stops in the frame, and says, “You know… even if you had asked to switch places with your dad, that wouldn’t make you a bad person. You’re only human.”

 

“Yeah, and they’re huge, terrifying werewolves, I know. But it still would’ve been wro-”

 

“No,” Derek cuts in. “In the end, they’re only human too, and you’re a lot more human than people like that will ever be. Goodnight, Stiles.”

 

Stiles stares for a long moment, before he nods.

 

“Night. And uh, thank you,” he says, holding up the mug of cocoa. “For… for everything. Thanks.”

 

Derek nods, silently pulling the door closed.

 

He gets back into bed, and drinks his own hot chocolate till he finally falls back asleep, listening to the sound of Stiles’ steady heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** nightmares, graphic depictions of violence (blood cw), panic attacks
> 
> So uh, yay for long chapters!
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm really sorry for the long wait, but I kinda have bad news bad news... I started school last week, and since I take all honors and AP classes I'm pretty much swamped with work 24/7, which doesn't leave much free time for writing. Updating this, along with my other WIP, isn't going to be able to be a weekly thing anymore, unfortunately. I'll try to update as often as possible (I'll still be trying for weekly updates, but there will definitely be exceptions), and hopefully things aren't affected too much. Thanks for understanding!

“You look tired,” Erica says, around a mouthful of cheerios.

 

“You do,” Boyd agrees.

 

He’s got one hand cradling a mug of coffee, and the other wrapped around her shoulders.

 

“Late night,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

“Yeah, well, you better wake up,” Isaac says. “Jennifer’s got that interview with the press this morning.”

 

“Still can’t believe you’re not going to that,” Cora adds. “And that Jenny didn’t just drag your ass there when you said no.”

 

“All the reporters will be more concerned about what I’m wearing than about Stiles if I go,” Derek says flatly.

 

“And man, wouldn’t they be disappointed when they found out it was a henley from Target,” Erica says, making the other laughs.

 

Reluctantly, Derek smiles, and takes another drag of his coffee.

 

* * *

 

The pack crowds in on the couch around Derek—even Peter takes a seat on the arm—and he turns to the local news, where Jennifer is giving a press conference about the alpha pack, without actually mentioning much _about_ the alpha pack.

 

Deaton’s there, as well as Sheriff Haigh, to explain to the more livid citizens why the hospital and sheriff’s department, respectively, won’t get involved.

 

Jennifer looks prim and proper as ever, but Derek—and any reporter who’s dealt with her before—knows full and well that despite her disarming smile, she’ll bring out the claws as well as any wolf when she doesn’t like the direction the questions are headed.

 

“Ms. Blake!”

 

“Ms. Blake!”

 

“Ms. Blake, over here!”

 

Jennifer calls on a man in a blue suit, with a camera slung around his neck.

 

“Yes, Ms. Blake, Jeffery Carter with The Weekly BH here. Can you tell us why Alpha Hale’s not here in person?”

 

“Alpha Hale has an important meeting today, and isn’t able to attend the conference. Rest assured he’s filled me in on any and all information that we’re willing to disclose at this time.”

 

“You got an important meeting today, Der?” Cora asks, nudging at him with her foot.

 

“His butt’s meeting this couch all day, obviously,” Erica says, grinning.

 

“ _Hey_ ,” Derek says. “I’m meeting with the Argents.”

 

“What time?”

 

“After dinner,” he mutters, and Cora swats at him again.

 

A chorus of, “Ms. Blake!” rises from the TV, and Jennifer chooses another reporter.

 

“Can you give us any information on the kidnapping victim?”

 

“He’s male, in his twenties, and not of this territory,” Jennifer says smoothly. “That’s all there is to say at the moment.”

 

She chooses reporter after reporter, easily answering all their questions, and tactfully evading ones she doesn’t want to answer.

 

“How did Alpha Hale discover the victim?”

 

“He found him wandering on Hale territory, and brought him to the house.”

 

“What’s happened since then? Why hasn’t anyone seen him?”

 

“He’s been staying at the Hale House, and has been being treated by Alan Deaton, head doctor at BHMH.”

 

“I have a question for the doctor!” a woman calls.

 

Jennifer steps down from the podium, and Deaton steps up.

 

“Why did the hospital refuse treatment? Isn’t it the right of all citizens to receive medical treatment in a situation like this?”

 

An accusatory chorus of agreement rings out from the crowd.

 

“It would’ve unfairly endangered the other hospital patients,” Deaton says calmly. “His injuries, while severe, were not life-threatening, and could be treated in my well-equipped office in the Hale’s basement, and his treatment is and will be continued from the Hale house.”

 

“Why would it have endangered the patients?” someone demands. “Isn’t it a danger to the man himself, to have his injuries dealt with in a non-hospital environment?”

 

Jennifer switches places with Deaton.

 

“The kidnappers were werewolves,” Jennifer says, sending the assembled crowd into excited chatter. “Surely you’re not suggesting,” she says, cutting over the volume with her just-the-wrong-side-of-sweet voice, “that the lives of every other patient at Beacon Hills Memorial are worth putting at risk of attack by rogue werewolves, when the victim’s injuries could easily be treated in a place as safe as Alpha Hale’s own home. And _surely_ you’re not suggesting that Alpha Hale would ever recklessly and needlessly endanger a life, or that the head of BHMH for over thirty years, appointed as emissary by Talia Hale herself—who was always happy to equip the Hales’ basement with any medical supplies needed by Alan Deaton, and whose son kept up that practice—isn’t competent enough to handle any injury, or is incompetent enough to refuse hospital treatment if the patient had needed it. Are you?”

 

She smiles at him, and the camera flashes back to the reporter, who’s shaking his head vigorously.

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“ _Ma’am_ ,” Cora laughs, “Gotta love Jenny.”

 

That would be another reason Derek’s not at this conference. He could never answer a question like that so smoothly. He’d probably give a stilted answer, and what Jennifer so graciously refers to as his ‘caveman glare’, which is yet another of the million things he does that's _not good for public relations._ He goes to plenty of press conferences, anyway—hell, reporters will even harass him at the grocery store—so he doesn’t feel terribly bad about missing this one.

 

“If they’re werewolves, and the police aren’t doing anything, who’s on the case?” another man calls.

 

Haigh steps up to the mic.

 

“The sheriff’s department is not going to endanger the lives of our men on a werewolf case when there are none on the force, nor are there hunters,” he says. “The Hale Pack has instead teamed up with local, independent hunters to work it out.”

 

“Calaveras or Argents?!”

 

Jennifer steps back up.

 

“The Argent family.”

 

That sends another excited titter through the crowd, and the camera shows nearly every hand shooting into the air.

 

“Isn’t that a little odd, given the Hales’ history with the Argents?” asks the woman Jennifer calls on.

 

“I don’t see how,” Jennifer says, cocking her head as though genuinely curious. “Past events between the Argent and Hale families in no way reflect on Alpha Hale’s respect for the local hunters, seeing as they had nothing to do with their family’s actions. The Argents are nearer and more familiar with the territory than the Calaveras, and are a reputable hunting family.”

 

The crowd seems smart enough not to start a scandal by further pushing the matter.

 

“You said the Argents,” one of them says next. “That would be Chris and his daughter? Isn’t she a little young?”

 

“Christopher and Allison Argent, yes. And I’d say age doesn’t matter much when it comes to natural ability. She’s also halfway through college, and has had her hunting license for a while now, so her age shouldn’t be a concern.”

 

By the time the hour’s up, all the reporters seem relatively satisfied, and Jennifer has done a good job of answering their questions.

 

“That was good,” Peter says. “Jennifer was successful as ever.”

 

Everyone murmurs there agreement, slowly peeling themselves away from each other and getting off the couch.

 

“I think I’m gonna go hang out with Stiles,” Erica says. “You coming?” she asks, turning to Boyd.

 

“Sure,” Boyd says, shrugging, and they head upstairs.

 

"Well, I’m just gonna chill down here,” Isaac says. “Anyone feel like a movie?”

 

They all flop back down on the couch.

 

* * *

 

Four movies later—four, because none of them have any self-control, and it’s not like anyone has anything better to do today—Derek is starting to fidget.

 

He’s torn about when he should go see Stiles; whether it’s better to give him space today, or whether he should just go do it. It’s going to be awkward, he’s sure. Stiles might be embarrassed to see him after last night, though if you ask Derek, he has no reason to be.

 

He decides that after he meets with the Argents, he’ll go check in with him. It's probably best not to put it off. 

 

* * *

 

Like Deaton, Derek takes the Argents down to the basement to talk, away from where the pack might accidentally catch the conversation.

 

He’d explained the Morell situation to Chris over the phone after talking to Deaton, but they’d found no evidence of Morell ever staying at Motel California.

 

Chris points out that he hunts werewolves, not people, and that even if they found Morell, they don’t have the right to legally detain a human.

 

Allison promises they’ll try anyway, though, and it’s a relief.

 

Without the Argents, he’d be totally lost.

 

And isn’t that ironic?

 

* * *

 

Stiles is fidgety all day.

 

Isaac asks him if he’s alright twice while they eat lunch together, and Erica asks too when she brings him water for his meds.

 

He’s pretty sure there’s no good way to say,  _Yeah, it’s all good, it’s just that your alpha is apparently a giant teddy bear of some sort who helps with panic attacks and makes hot chocolate at 4am and doesn’t call my dad when I ask him not to and knows how to deal with nightmares and has his_ own _nightmares and he was cool before but now he especially is because he seems really different and_ soft _now and I am so, so confused, and I don’t know if he’s avoiding me or if he just hasn’t been here yet today or what I would say to him even if he_ were _here, or if we’re going to have to talk about it or just pretend it didn’t happen, or what I’m going to do about any of this._

 

He just tells them he slept poorly.

 

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t really prepared for it when Derek shows up in his doorway. There’s not really anything he could’ve done to make him feel prepared, but still, he’s definitely not.

 

Derek raises his eyebrows, asking silent permission to enter Stiles’ room. The others don’t do that anymore, just make sure Stiles hears them approaching and then enter—generally, if Stiles lets them leave his door open now, it means he’s open to company, which is most of the time—and some part of him feels bad that Derek doesn’t feel free to do that. He’s an alpha, sure, but he’s more than proven he has absolutely no intentions of hurting Stiles.

 

Stiles nods at him and Derek enters.

 

“How’re you doing?” Derek asks, walking over to sit in the chair.

 

He puts his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between his legs.

 

Stiles doesn’t know if he means now, or last night, or in general, or if he’s going for the emotional aspect again today, or _what_.

 

“Umm…”

 

“Did you have an okay day?” Derek clarifies.

 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “All good. A-Okay.”

 

The tension in the room is palpable.

 

Finally, Derek says, “And after last night?”

 

“Good,” Stiles says, immediately.

 

He didn’t even necessarily mean to say it, but it’s the default response.

 

“That’s good,” Derek says, nodding.

 

He doesn’t look like he necessarily believes it, either, but whatever.

 

“But, uh, I just wanted to thank you,” Stiles says quickly, before he can chicken out. God, this is awkward. He just needs to get it over with fast. “You were really great last night. Just um, nice, and patient, and- and yeah." He swallows. "And I really appreciate it. And I also really appreciate you not calling my dad, because y’know, I know he worries, and he would want to know, but I don’t want him to be even more worried. So… thanks.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says, looking surprised. His face softens a little, and he says, “It’s fine. You can always…” his mouth twists for a moment, uncertain, “wake me up if you had a nightmare and need to calm down. Especially if you don’t want to call your dad. If you want.”

 

Even if Stiles doubts he’ll ever be able to bring himself to take him up on that offer, it’s still really nice. And awkward. All of this is so, so awkward.

 

“Thank you,” he says again, for lack of a better response. “That’s really cool of you.”

 

He gives a tentative smile, and Derek returns it.

 

“Oh, hey,” Derek says, shoving his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket. Stiles has no idea how he’s wearing that thing in the middle of summer, but the air conditioner _is_ up pretty high. “Isaac mentioned yesterday that you liked these, so…”

 

He stands and gently tosses something into Stiles’ lap.

 

“I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

 

He’s halfway out the door before Stiles even picks up the bag.

 

Looking down at it, he smiles again.

 

Gummy worms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize for the wait, but I hope you enjoyed! As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!


	29. Chapter 29

“I’m glad you’ve been doing well,” Scott says.

 

He’s lying on Melissa’s couch, holding his phone in the air above him. Stiles is definitely going to bust some stitches--which he has very few of left, thankfully--laughing if he gets to watch Scott drop his phone on his face.

 

“Yeah, things are going pretty good.”

 

Okay, so, maybe he’s bending the truth a _little_ bit. He’s sorry, okay? But the last thing Stiles needs is Scott worrying about his nightmares, or flashbacks, or pain, or anything else that will make him upset. Or even worse, guilty.

 

Scott smiles, and his dimples kind of make _Stiles_ feel guilty. But hey, the lying is for his own good. That’s totally allowed.

 

“Glad Derek’s been good, too,” Scott continues. “I know you were a little freaked out at first.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, shrugging. _A little freaked out._ Just a little. Scott’s sensitivity is adorable. “He’s good though.”

 

“Good,” he says. “Otherwise I’d have to come kick his ass.”

 

Stiles scoffs.

 

“Hey!” Scott says indignantly, but his eyes are sparkling. “I could totally kick Derek’s ass!”

 

“Maybe in an alternate universe, sure,” Stiles says breezily, purely for the reaction.

 

“Uh, have you seen these muscles?” Scott demands, pulling the camera back to flex them.

 

This is why Scott is the best. He can ask if Stiles is okay, be genuinely concerned, and move off the subject as quickly as Stiles wants.

 

“Have you seen Derek’s?” Stiles counters.

 

“Nope,” Scott laughs. “But you talk about them often enough.”

 

“What?” Stiles demands. “No I don’t!”

 

“Dude, yes you do.”

 

“Um, _excuse you,_ but-”

 

“’His eyes are this insane green- no, not green. Man, I don’t even know what color they are.’ ‘I bet if he were wearing a plaid shirt he would look like a lumberjack. Like, those muscles? It’s ridiculous.’ ‘Everyone in this house is so hot, Scott, I swear to god. It’s like bi hell. Or heaven? Nah, hell.'”

 

Scott says it all in a high, dreamy falsetto that sounds _nothing_ like Stiles, thank you very much.

 

“Okay,” Stiles huffs. “A, you _asked_ me to describe everyone. It’s not my fault his eyes are like twelve different colors. B, he has big muscles! That’s a _fact_. Do you want me to lie? And C, that was about _all_ of them. It wasn’t exclusive to Derek. Oh, and D! You definitely embellished that. No way I said half that shit.”

 

Scott just smirks. And, yeah. Stiles is pretty sure he actually _did_ say all that shit.

 

“He bought you gummy worms.”

 

“So? That was like a week ago!”

 

Stiles’ high-pitched insistence probably isn’t helping make his case, but shut up. He doesn’t like Derek. How can he? A few weeks ago the guy scared him to death. Werewolves still kind of scare him—probably always will, a tiny bit—sometimes, so liking Derek is just… ridiculous. Even though Derek is so, so different from the alphas. And Stiles likes him. That doesn’t mean he  _likes him_ likes him.

 

“Still. He’s like, courting you.”

 

“Yes, Scott, you’re right,” Stiles deadpans. “If we were small woodland animals, or from a few hundred years ago, I would feel totally courted.”

 

“Well he _is_ a werewolf.”

 

“I’m like, 99% sure that would be offensive if you weren’t one.”

 

“Nah,” Scott says, grinning. “I mean, it’s probably not _actually_ a werewolf thing, but it _is_ a human thing. Like, chocolate and roses and junk. Except instead, gummy worms and comic books.”

 

Comic books. Derek had gotten him two issues of Batman from the bookstore the other day, claiming that he’d been there to pick something up for Cora anyway. When Stiles happened to mention it to Cora later, she denied ever asking Derek for a book. But that doesn’t have to _mean_ anything. Like, maybe he just has a secret obsession with romance novels, and he picked something up for Stiles while he was replenishing his stash.

 

Derek could probably be on the _cover_ of a romance novel. A shirtless guy riding a horse, maybe, or- Wow. Maybe Scott’s right. But just because he thinks Derek’s good-looking doesn’t mean he _likes_ him.

 

“I find him aesthetically pleasing,” Stiles says firmly. “That doesn’t mean I want to marry him.”

 

“Aesthetically pleasing,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. “You think the guy’s hot.”

 

“Everyone with eyes thinks he’s hot!” Stiles snaps, without any heat.

 

“He doesn’t buy things for everyone with eyes. After they _specifically mention liking_ said things.”  

 

Stiles takes it back. Scott is no longer the best.  

 

“You’re such a douche,” he huffs. “Like, the king douche.”

 

“Wait, are you saying you didn’t call me to get verbally assaulted?” Scott asks, throwing a hand over his heart.

 

“For a giant puppy, you can really be a little shit sometimes,” Stiles says, trying not to grin.

 

“Dog jokes? Really?” Scott tsks. “Think you’re out of practice with the insults, man.”

 

“Nuh-uh! I was just talking to Derek the other day, and I made the _best_ -”

 

Scott raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Stiles trails off midsentence.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

Scott doesn’t even _try_ to hide his smirk.

 

* * *

 

“So, any leads?” Scott asks.

 

“Nope. The Argents haven’t even found a trace of them, which is pretty disturbing. They want me to remember how long we were driving for, or which direction it was in, or what the place we were staying looked like, but it’s mostly a blur. And I was usually blindfolded when we were outside anyway,” which makes Scott cringe ever so slightly, “so it’s not like I’m much help to them. I assume you guys are having just as much luck?”

 

“Pretty much,” Scott sighs. “Your dad’s got some of the guys from the department looking into things, but there aren’t any real leads. He brought it up to Satomi, too, but she doesn’t really want to risk more of her pack on a hunt when so many of them died from that crazy disease last year.”

 

Yeah, Stiles expected as much. His dad had mentioned bringing the case to their alpha, but since some, for lack of a better term, _mad scientist_ had engineered a disease that could actually affect werewolves, and subsequently wiped out half the Satomi Pack, she probably wouldn’t want to risk anyone else’s life for a while. On the bright side, she had ripped the man’s throat out, but considering the body count, it didn't nearly make up for it. And five alphas? Definitely not the kind of thing she’d want to face.

 

Stiles tries to be understanding, he really does, but doesn’t _anyone_ understand the gravity of this situation? The cops won’t get involved, the hospital won’t get involved, the alpha of his own territory won’t get involved… It’s not like he thinks he’s important enough to put all those lives on the line, either, but he _does_ think every single other person the alphas already have and will likely continue to hurt are worth putting a stop to this. After all, how probable is it that they’re sitting idly by, holed up somewhere, hoping to lure Stiles back to them through sheer power of will? Yeah, no. They could be after him right now, after Scott right now, and hurting people who get in their way. There haven’t been any suspicious, werewolf-related deaths in the news lately, but it’s hard to forget they have a human side, too. The longer they stay free, the more damage they have a chance to do, and the more people they can hurt.

 

“Well how’re you holding up?”

 

“Me?” Scott asks, brow furrowing.

 

“Yeah, man. They were kinda after you, after all. You feeling okay?”

 

That’s the problem with Scott. Sure, Stiles is a stubborn bastard who hates to admit when he’s feeling wrecked, but so is Scott. It can’t be easy for him, knowing his and Melissa’s lives are in danger, and Stiles is certain he’s feeling guilty, even if he’s repeatedly forbid Scott from apologizing.

 

“Are you alone?” Scott asks.

 

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Everyone cleared out to go to lunch an hour ago, and Derek's working out in the basement.”

 

Scott exhales slowly.

 

“Honestly?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s pretty scary, thinking they could come for you or Mom or your dad at any time. And… I don’t know. It’s just overwhelming.”

 

Stiles nods seriously, before he asks, “But how’re _you_ feeling? Are you worried for yourself?”

 

“I don’t care if they hurt me, as long as they leave the rest of you alone,” Scott says, voice heavy with conviction. It’s scary coming from him, because Stiles knows he means it. “I’m not letting anyone else get hurt because of me.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles says softly. “No one got hurt because of you.”

 

“You can’t act like they didn’t-”

 

“What? I can’t act like they didn’t hurt me? Oh, they did. You know why? Because they were sadistic. They were angry, and malicious, and _liked_ to hurt people. If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else.” The ‘it might’ve been you’ remains unspoken. “Scott, you’re my best friend, okay? You’re my brother. It’s as much your fault for being bitten as it is my fault for being _born_. Alright? Lots of circumstances that were miles out of our control led up to it. It’s not your fault.”

 

“Stiles-”

 

“If anything, it’s _my_ fault. I dragged you into the woods that night, didn’t I? So none of this shit would’ve happened if I hadn’t been an idiot.”

 

God, it’s true, too. It hurts like hell to know Scott’s sitting around feeling guilty for something that, ultimately, is Stiles’ fault. Seriously, who goes out to look for a dead body? Not only had Stiles' teenage self gotten them into all this, but he’d majorly fucked up Scott’s life in the process.

 

“ _Stiles_ -”

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, fixing him with a Look. “Don’t you fucking say bad things about my best friend, got it? I hear he’s got some giant werewolf-y muscles, and he’ll totally kick your ass.”

 

Scott gives a tight smile, clearly trying very hard not to let the tears pooled in his eyes spill over. They’re still all doing way too much crying lately, if you ask Stiles.

 

“Everything’s gonna be fine, Scotty.”

 

“I know,” Scott says. Then, firmer, “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

_“I think I’m a werewolf.”_

_“Isn’t that a show on MTV?” Stiles asks, from where he’s sprawled across his bed. “_ ’Dude, I Think I’m a Werewolf’ _?”_

_“No,” Scott says. He’s standing in Stiles’ doorframe, leaning against it heavily. “I mean- yes. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s not what I mean.”_

_“Uh, phew,” Stiles says, pretending to flick sweat from his brow. “Cause I think it’s mostly teen girls who watch that, and I know I’ve been looking for something new to get into, but...”_

_“I think I’m a werewolf,” Scott repeats, as though he hadn’t heard. “Me.”_

_“You like… like Scott?”_

_Scott nods, face oddly blank._

_“How do you_ think _you’re a werewolf?” Stiles demands._

_“Look.”_

_Scott grabs the corner of his shirt—Stiles hadn’t really noticed, but he’d been playing with the hem the whole time—and lifts it, to reveal… nothing. Smooth, tan skin._

_“Uh, yeah,” Stiles laughs. “That’s a nice first step towards a six-pack, man, but-”_

_“Stiles,” Scott says, and his voice is a little choked off now, a little urgent. “It healed.”_

_“What healed?”_

 

_“The bite.”_

_“Scott, I’m- I’m gonna need some more info than that.”_

_Because really, the two word answers aren’t helping him make much headway here._

_“When we went looking for that body last night, after your dad sent you home, something- some_ one _, I- I guess. They bit me. A herd of deer ran by and something leapt on top of me, and it bit me and ran off. And I thought maybe- maybe it was a wolf, or an omega, even, but- but now it healed.”_

_Now that he’s really talking, he sounds like he’s on the edge of hysteria, and a pang of terror runs through Stiles._

_“An alpha?”_

_Scott nods, jaw clenched hard, and suddenly Stiles is out of his chair and crowding into Scott’s space. He pets his hands up his arms, sort of checking for injuries that would’ve already healed over—which, just, holy shit—and sort of, mostly, for comfort._

_“You’re really not screwing with me?”_

_Scott gives a tiny head shake._

_“Okay,” Stiles says, trying to breathe evenly. Freaking out will_ not _help. “Did you tell your mom yet?”_

_Scott shakes his head again._

_“No one?”_

_“Just you.”_

_“Okay,” Stiles says, shuffling them both back over to the bed. He gets Scott to sit on the edge and faces him, hands on his shoulders. “Are you okay?_

_“It healed,” Scott says, for the third time._

_Stiles takes that to mean,_ physically, yes; mentally, hell no.

_“Okay,” Stiles says again. “Alright. I’ll call my dad, okay? They’ll track the guy down. I promise. We’re gonna get through this. Okay?”_

_Scott doesn’t answer right away, just looks down at his feet._

_“Hey,” Stiles says, gently bumping his knuckles against Scott’s shoulder. “Okay?”_

_“Okay,” Scott murmurs._

_“It’ll be okay,” Stiles assures. “I promise.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we've had wayyy too little Scott recently! (Although, can you _ever_ have enough Scott? Probably not.) 
> 
> So yeah! Yay for baby Scott and Stiles, older Scott and Stiles, and more Derek and Stiles;)
> 
> *Also, just so you know, the body is not Laura Hale.  
> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, okay, so this has been the longest wait between chapters by far, and I'm really, really sorry about that. If you follow me on tumblr, you've been seeing my excuses for the lateness of this, which pretty much boil down to _oh my God, my life is so busy right now_. Regardless, I'm very sorry for the wait, and I really hope you enjoy (and that the fluffy sterek stuff and pack bonding makes up for it a little;))!

Three more days pass with no result.

 

Derek can see how even though he tries to hide it, Stiles deflates just a little every time he tells him the Argents haven’t made any headway in finding the alphas. What’s worse, though, is that he's starting to look _resigned_.

 

It’s only been a few weeks, and Derek wants to tell him it’s not that long, not _too_ long, but realistically, it means the alphas could be anywhere in the world. Or worse, somewhere nearby, successfully lying in wait for weeks on end. When it comes right down to it, there’s really nothing to say to comfort Stiles.

 

And that? Yeah, that’s killing Derek.

 

There’s no denying he’s grown fond of Stiles over the past few weeks, and watching him grow more miserable, more hopeless, is terrible.

 

There are certain phone conversations that Stiles asks everyone to clear out for, and others that he doesn’t mind the pack being in the house for. Yesterday, Derek happened to pass by his room during one of the latter.

 

In his defense, he hadn’t _meant_ to eavesdrop.

 

He was heading from his room to the bathroom when he heard Stiles’ voice come through the door, tight and strained. Derek just stopped for a moment to make sure he was okay, that he wasn’t alone and freaking out, and once he heard Stiles was still on the phone with his father, he intended to leave.

 

That is, until the sharp scent of panic hit him from under the door.

 

He didn’t go so far as to listen in to John’s side of the conversation, but he could clearly hear Stiles begging his father to stay in New York. The general gist seemed to be that John wanted to come visit Stiles, Stiles insisting it wasn’t safe, and John not caring about his own safety.  

 

_“Dad, no.”_

_“It doesn’t matter! Scott doesn’t get to make that kind of decision.”_

_“I. Don’t. Care. I’m fine, and none of you are getting hurt for me.”_

_“Because Scott is a stubborn idiot! Of course he’s trying to put himself in danger for me, but I can out-stubborn him any day, and I said_ no _.”_

_“I-“ Stiles’ voice catches. “I know you just want to help. But Dad, I need to feel like I can control something in my life, okay? I have people catering to me all day, and I’ve barely gotten out of bed in weeks except to_ pee _, and the least I can do is to know I’m keeping you guys safe. I don’t care if I’m ‘playing her game’. We don’t have a choice. If Morrell wants you to stay in New York, then-”_

 

Derek had torn himself away from the door then, hurrying down the rest of the hall, feeling like an asshole for listening.

 

* * *

 

“Chris, I need some good news.”

 

There’s a long silence on the other side of the phone, which Derek doesn’t quite take to mean that he’s caught the entire alpha pack and Morrell, too, while he was at it.

 

“These things take time, Hale. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill omega we’re dealing with here. They’re smart, and careful, and you’ve given us very little to work with.”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“There’s been _no_ progress since we last talked?”

 

“It’s only been a few days,” Chris says gruffly. “You breathing down our necks isn’t exactly helping. A rushed job is a poor job.”

 

Derek wants to be annoyed, but he can’t really deny being all over the Argents. These past couple days are probably the longest he’s gone without contacting them.

 

Before he can respond, there’s shuffling on the end of the line, and suddenly Allison’s voice comes across instead.

 

“Hey, Derek.” Her tone is light and soft, and while it should probably make him feel more at ease, he can’t help but notice that she sounds an awful lot like Kate sometimes did. While he pushes _that_ lovely thought aside, she keeps talking. “I’ve been doing some serious research, while Dad’s been out on the field. We’re talking to alphas, emissaries, hunting families. Anyone we know we can trust. It’s pretty impressive, how far these guys have managed to get themselves off the grid, but I’m sure we’ll find them.”

 

“Soon?” Derek asks, even though he knows she has no good answer to that. “Because the longer it takes to find them, the more opportunity they have to do something.”

 

“Don’t think we don’t know that,” Allison says, and Derek can practically feel her frowning. “We don’t have an exact timeframe, but we’re going on a hunt on tomorrow’s full moon.”

 

“They’d have to be pretty stupid to come out on a full moon, wouldn’t they?”

 

The Argents won’t be the only hunters out, after all. There should be plenty around the country, keeping omegas in check.

 

“Wouldn’t _we_ be pretty stupid not to at least try?”

 

“Guess so,” Derek mutters.

 

“You should never underestimate your opponent, but you should never overestimate them, either,” she says. “They’ve been successful so far, and success turns to cockiness surprisingly fast. Plus, they’re stronger on the full moon. If they have a plan, tomorrow would be a good night to carry it out. Speaking of, it’s probably not a great idea to leave Stiles alone tomorrow, if you’ve been doing it at all. And a little mountain ash goes a long way.”

 

Derek hasn’t exactly been the biggest fan of mountain ash, since Kate used it to trap his family in their house before burning it to the ground, but that’s probably not the kind of thing he should say to Allison.

 

“I’m sure we can protect him just fine. Give me a call when you get home from the hunt, alright?”

 

“Will do,” Allison says. “Tell Stiles we hope he’s feeling better.”

 

"Will do," Derek echoes wearily.

 

* * *

 

“Man, this is so great,” Stiles says, for what must be the fiftieth time that day. Deaton, for his part, is being extremely patient about it. “I cannot _wait_ to get outta this room.”

 

Deaton, with a level of careful precision that seems to be driving Stiles crazy, cut the last stitch.

 

“There we are, Mr. Stilinski. All finished.”

 

Derek watches from the doorway, a silent presence as Stiles has the last of his serious injuries examined. The burns, thankfully all second degree, have managed, miraculously, to heal without infection. Stiles’ back still doesn’t look good—it’s riddled with scars and areas of pink, white, and tan—but it certainly looks better now that it’s lacking angry, blistered skin and too many stitches to count. The sprained ankle is on its way to healing, too, and after days on end of Stiles begging, Deaton is finally allowing him downstairs.

 

“Now Stiles, just because you’re up and about doesn’t mean you should stay that way. I still want you getting plenty of rest,” Deaton orders, as he spreads some sort of cream on Stiles’ back, and proceeds to wrap gauze back around it. “Having crutches doesn’t mean you should be putting a lot of pressure on your ankle just yet, either. If you’re not in bed, you should be on the couch, or in a chair. I still want you taking your meds regularly. And I still want you using that shower chair, for now. Standing for extended periods of time is doable, but not wise. Besides, the last thing we need is your ankle giving out and you cracking your head open.”

 

Deaton drones on and on, listing the many things Stiles should be careful about, but it’s probably worth it based on the way Stiles’ face is still lit up.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Stiles says, dragging out the word. “Stairs, huh?”

 

He keeps his tone light, joking, but they all know Deaton has forbidden him from taking the stairs by himself for a few days, which means… Well, it means he’s going to need help. The entire pack is there, and while he knows it’s for moral support, it means this whole situation can turn embarrassing really fast. Either 1) he could take a nasty spill down the stairs, regardless of someone supporting his weight, or 2) they’ll hear how his heartbeat is ratcheting up just a little at the prospect of it. Possibly both.

 

“Stairs,” Boyd agrees. “Only eight of ‘em.”

 

Stiles nods.

 

“You ready?” Derek asks.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Course.”

 

He slips the crutches out from under his arms, passing them to Derek, who quickly winds his arm around Stiles, supporting him by his armpits. He has an odd, fleeting moment of hoping he showered thoroughly this morning.

 

“All good?” Derek asks, easily readjusting them so he’s supporting most of Stiles’ weight.

 

“All good.”

 

Before he knows it they’re moving, and he grips the banister as they hit the first stair.

 

Derek turns to him, raising an eyebrow.

 

“All good,” Stiles repeats, voice just a little tighter. “Keep going.”  

 

Derek advances down the stairs slowly, a solid, reassuring weight beside Stiles. When had Derek’s presence become reassuring, anyway?

 

Probably around the time he had the nightmare, he thinks, but hey, he's not gonna dwell on it. 

 

They reach the bottom before Stiles knows it, and Derek keeps holding onto him till he gets his crutches back under himself.

 

“You good?” Derek asks, a small smile on his face as he lets go and takes a step back.

 

It kind of makes Stiles' stomach flip.

 

“Good,” he agrees, smiling widely in return as he glances around the downstairs area that he hasn't seen in weeks. “ _Awesome_.”

 

“Great,” Isaac says, taking the stairs two at a time and clapping Stiles lightly on the shoulder when he hits the bottom. “Let’s go watch that movie, man.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles makes it to the living room with relative ease, explaining how he’s had to use crutches before, after he fell while dangling from the monkey bars with Scott when they were kids.

 

He plops down on the couch and lays his crutches on the ground, nudging them underneath it with his feet. The pack stands in a loose formation behind Derek, as if waiting for some sort of invitation. Luckily, Stiles delivers.

 

“Well are you guys gonna sit, or do I get this whole couch to myself? 'Cause as much of a couch hog as Scott is on Bro Night, and as much as I _deserve_ a cushion to myself for once, I’d probably get lonely pretty fast."

 

It’s only awkward for a moment, before Peter shrugs, moving to sit down in the arm chair.

 

“You sit on the couch with these heathens,” he explains, “and you’ll almost certainly end up with someone’s freezing toes poking at you.”

 

“It’s _summer_ ,” Cora says, taking the seat at the end of the couch.

 

Stiles’ scent doesn’t spike with fear, or even apprehension, and it’s nice to see him getting so much more used to being around the pack.

 

“And yet,” Peter says dully, “you manage to have ten ice cubes at the end of your feet.”

 

“If our feet are cold, it’s only because _Derek’s_ been blasting the air conditioner lately.”

 

If Derek’s been blasting the air conditioner lately, it’s only because _Stiles_ had mentioned how hot all the layers of bandages always made him. Not that any of them need to know that.

 

“Gotta side with Peter on this one,” Boyd interjects, taking the seat between Cora and Stiles and pulling Erica into his lap. “Pretty sure both you girls could use a good pair of socks.”

 

“Who needs socks when I can do this?” Erica asks, curling up even smaller in Boyd’s lap so she can shove her toes between his thighs.

 

Boyd makes a muffled noise of outrage, which Erica quickly cuts off with a kiss.

 

Isaac pulls a face of pure disgust and makes a show of sitting as far away from them as possible, on the very opposite end of the couch.

 

As he goes to turn off the lights, Derek notes that that means the only seat now available is the one beside Stiles, and he has no idea why that makes his heart beat a little faster. Seriously. He _doesn’t_.

 

“What kind of movie are we watching?” he asks, going over to one of the infinite shelves lining the walls by the TV.

 

“Horror?” Isaac suggests. “Apocalyptic? Something Boyd and Erica can’t make out to, hopefully?”

 

Erica digs a pillow out from behind Boyd and tosses it at his head without even breaking the kiss.

 

“These two could make out to a slasher movie,” Cora mutters. “And _chill_. You’re probably scaring Stiles.”

 

“You’re scaring _me_ ,” Isaac says, under his breath.

 

“Nah, it’s cool,” Stiles laughs. “Scott and his old girlfriend, Kira, had _no_ problem with PDA. They were cute enough to make you heave.”

 

“Cute enough to make you heave,” Erica says thoughtfully, pulling away. “Goals.”

 

If Derek’s being honest, he kind of loves the fact that Boyd and Erica are so open in their relationship. He knows Isaac and Cora think it’s sweet too, even if they’d never admit it.

 

The thing is, the two of them had been some of the shyest people Derek had ever met when he first bit them. While the Bite had given Erica and Isaac a major confidence boost, especially during the first few weeks, Boyd had stayed his normal, reserved self. And it’s not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that; Derek loves Boyd. It’s just that the lonely sixteen-year-old Derek bit probably never would’ve imagined himself with a girl like Erica, and Erica never would’ve imagined _becoming_ a girl like Erica. They work fantastically well together, their opposing personalities meshing just right. Besides, as much as the pack likes to tease them for making out a lot—which, admittedly, they do. A _lot_ —Derek’s glad that they’re both at the point where they can confidently do what makes them happy in a room full of people. Plus, they've been dating for five years now, and even though they're still young, he wouldn't be terribly surprised if there was a proposal soon...

 

“So what movie are we watching?” he asks again, louder this time.

 

“You’ve got a pretty wide selection,” Stiles says, cocking an eyebrow.

 

“It’s Peter’s,” Isaac says. “He’s kind of a movie fiend.”

 

“Oh, cool,” Stiles says, glancing over at Peter. “I love movies.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think he loves them,” Erica says. “No one’s ever actually _seen_ him watch one by himself. Only if the rest of us are watching. Pretty sure he just likes to hoard them.”

 

Peter huffs.

 

“Personally, I think he watches them in secret,” Cora chimes in. “Only in the dead of night on his laptop, or when no one’s home. He knows a _terrifying_ amount of movie quotes and trivia. Even back when we were kids.”

 

“So we know a terrifying amount by association,” Isaac tells Stiles, with a long suffering sigh. “And yet we never know as much as him.”

 

“Of course you don’t know,” Peter says, a small smirk forming. “You don’t know because only _I_ know. If you knew and I didn’t know, then you’d be teaching me instead of me teaching you, and for a student to be teaching a teacher is presumptuous and rude.”

 

“Mr. Turkentine,” Stiles says, looking oddly pleased. “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. 1971.”

 

“And so the _student_ becomes the _master_ ,” Erica laughs. “How’d you know that?”

 

“It was pretty obscure,” Peter says, looking… impressed? Oh, this is so weird. “And before your time, I might add.”

 

“While I do love movies, that was actually just kinda luck,” Stiles admits. “That was my all-time favorite as a kid. Haven’t seen it in years, but _c’mon_. Pretty colors, wickedly twisted plot, singing, _candy_. What’s not to love?”

 

“The 2005 version,” Peter says with distaste. “Remakes are never as good.”

 

“True,” Stiles agrees, nodding sagely. “Plus, the kids live in that version. _Lame_.”

 

“What?” Derek asks, finally stepping back into the conversation. “They don’t _die_ in the old one.”

 

Stiles scoffs.

 

“Are you kidding me? They _so_ do! Not only do they die, but I’d bet you a million bucks Wonka _eats_ them.”

 

“Um,” Boyd says, looking at Stiles like he’s lost his mind. “I remember a distinct lack of cannibalism in that movie, man.”

 

“What?!” Stiles demands. “What is _wrong_ with you people? How have you never heard these theories? He- Wait. Okay. Do you have the movie?”

 

Derek glances at Peter, who points it out among the alphabetized shelves in a matter of seconds.

 

“Okay, okay, put it in,” Stiles commands, looking absolutely livid that no one agrees with him. “And allow me to explain the _beauty_ of this movie.”

 

Derek obliges, popping the disk out of the case and shoving it in the Xbox, then moves back over to the couch. He sits down next to Stiles, and his entire right side is pressed against Stiles’ left.

 

It feels kind of nice. Even nicer when Stiles doesn't flinch at the contact.

 

“Listen,” Stiles continues, as Derek fiddles with the controller. “Number one, Wonka says, and Peter, back me up here, that everything in the Candy Room is edible, which is innocent enough by itself, but in the new version, they changed that line to something about how even Wonka is edible, although that’s called cannibalism, which is frowned upon in most societies. So lemme point you to A) the word _most_ , and B) the _direct mention_ of cannibalism!”

 

“But that’s the new version,” Derek says, mostly for his reaction. Stiles is kind of… not _cute_. Not _cute_ , but… but _something_ , when he’s all worked up like this. Derek does _not_ like Stiles like that. Because that would be wrong. And because Stiles would never like him back, after all he's been through. But that doesn’t mean Derek can’t appreciate how… how _something_ he looks when he’s excited. “You said you don’t like that one.”

 

“Shush!” Stiles says, smacking Derek lightly on the knee. Derek steadfastly tells himself that that _didn’t_ send a spark of electricity through him, and that Stiles seeming so comfortable around the pack at the moment only makes him a _perfectly healthy_ amount of happy. “I’m making _connections_ here.”

 

Derek finally manages to pull the movie up, and Stiles grumbles, “Here, fine, I’ll point things out to you as they happen. You’ve been watching this movie _all_ wrong.”

 

* * *

 

By the end of the night, Derek is unable to deny the fact that Willy Wonka probably is, in fact, a cannibal.

 

He’s also unable to deny the fact that he probably does, in fact, have a crush on Stiles.

 

Oh, this is bad.

 

* * *

 

**Stiles Stilinski [10:14 PM]**

_Guess who finally made it down the stairs today_

_AND_

_Guess who hung out around the pack all night without feeling freaked out_

_!!!_

**Scott McCall [10:16 PM]**

_That’s great dude!_

_:D_

 

**Stiles Stilinski [10:17 PM]**

_Right?_

_It kinda helps, thinking about you, y’know? Cuz like, I know you’d never hurt me even tho ur a werewolf, and I just gotta keep telling myself they’d never hurt me either_

**Scott McCall [10:17 PM]**

_Exactly dude_

_That’s really good :)_

**Stiles Stilinski [10:17 PM]**

_It felt really good_

_It also felt really good sitting next to Derek all night…_

 

**Scott McCall [10:17 PM]**

_HA_

_KNEW YOU LIKED HIM_

_HAAAAAA_

 

**Stiles Stilinski [10:18 PM]**

_Shut up._

_He’s /cute/, okay?_

**Scott McCall [10:18 PM]**

_Oh, I know_

_Cute_

_And muscular_

_And tall_

_And nice_

_And funny_

_And perfect_

**Stiles Stilinski [10:19 PM]**

_..._

_no comment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all for movie buff Stiles, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to assign him my fave childhood movie. Plus, it really is one I could see him loving;)
> 
> Anyway, did the sterek make you guys like me again? :P
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!


	31. Chapter 31

Stiles is laying on the couch, foot propped on a pillow, when Derek comes downstairs in his pajamas—a faded blue shirt that proudly proclaims Beacon Hills University across the chest, a pair of gray sweatpants, and bare feet. His hair is mussed and his face unshaven, so his stubble looks just a little scruffier than usual. Stiles watches him rub his hand over it idly as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and heads into the kitchen.

 

Things are silent for a few moments, save for the opening and shutting of drawers, before Derek’s tired, confused voice comes from next door.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Derek groans.

 

“Sorry, didn’t see you there. You want breakfast?”

 

“Are you insinuating that you smelled me before you saw me?” Stiles calls. “Because I’ll have you know I smell _excellent_.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, and Stiles can practically feel Derek shaking his head, before he says, “Stiles, you smell like _me_. It’s _my_ soap.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Huh. You’ve got me there! But don’t think I won’t notice any future back-handed insults, mister!”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says. “Now, cereal or toaster strudel?”

 

“Cereal,” Stiles says decisively. “You think I’m eating blueberry toaster strudel after that movie last night? _Ew_ , Derek.”

 

Derek huffs a laugh, and Stiles can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face.

* * *

 

"Stiles?”

 

“Wassup?” Stiles asks, around a mouthful of Cheerios.

 

“There’s a package here,” Derek says. “It’s got your name on it.”

 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, about to get off the couch when Derek’s head peeks out from behind the wall separating the foyer and the living room, his brow furrowed.

 

“Stay there. I’ll bring it in.”

 

Stiles is about to make a comment on how ridiculous it is that Derek’s able to bend backwards that far, when he steps through the entranceway, holding a huge box. It must be two feet by three, and it makes a loud rattling noise when Derek sets it in front of him on the coffee table.

 

“It says it’s from the Argents,” he says, and for some reason he sounds mildly concerned.

 

“Chill, dude. I doubt they sent us Deucalion’s head in a box. Although there’s no denying that’d be _awesome_.”

 

Derek shakes his head, like he’s shaking off the thought.

 

“You want to open it? I can take it upstairs for you if you want.”

 

“Nah, I’ll check it out down here,” Stiles says, setting his breakfast aside. “If they did send me Deucalion’s head, I need you here to dispose of it for me while I scream like a little girl.” He pats the spot next to him on the couch, adding, “You can sit if ya want.”

 

Derek does, walking around the table and plopping himself next to Stiles on the couch. Stiles leans forward, fumbling with the tape for a moment before he manages to get a fingernail underneath, and lifts the flaps.

 

“Whoa.”

 

The box is filled to the brim with smaller boxes and bags and books and all kinds of other things.

 

“That’s a lot of stuff,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Wanna help me dig through it?”

 

Derek shrugs, reaching into the box and pulling out three books tied together with string.

 

“ _Self Defense for Beginners_ ,” he reads from the spine of one. _“Humans vs. Werewolves._ Sounds friendly. And _Werewolves for Dummies_.”

 

“Gee. Sounds like they have a lot of faith this is going to end well.”

 

“They just like to be cautious,” Derek says, sounding weary as he sets the books on the table. “What else is in there?”

 

“Uhh…” Stiles says, reaching in and pulling out a long, sheathed object. “I’m gonna go with a knife? Or a _machete_? I dunno, but something that you ought to have a license for, if you ask me.”

 

You might need a license, actually, but considering Derek's the alpha and he's under Derek's protection, he probably technically doesn't.

 

“Guess we know what that first book is for,” Derek mutters.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs. “Sadly, I think it’d take about two seconds flat to disarm me, and a third to lodge this right in my gut." Derek makes a face at that. "Next.”

 

They sort through several more things that will likely be of no use to him before Stiles finds a small wooden jar, with odd, foreign symbols and words carved into the sides.

 

“This looks kinda spooky,” he says. “Wonder what it is.”

 

Stiles unscrews the top, peering at the thick, black dust inside. He drags a tentative finger across the surface, and it comes away stained dark.

 

“Um,” he says. “I _still_ wonder what it is.”

 

He expects Derek to laugh, to give one of his done-with-you huffs, at least, but when Stiles glances over at him, his face is stony.

 

“Buuuut… something tells me you know?” he suggests. “Cause you’re kinda making a face like it insulted your great grandmother.”

 

Derek shakes his head, expression clearing a little, and gently takes the jar into his own hands. His mouth twists for a moment, before he dips a finger in as well. Well, tries to, anyway.

 

“Oh, it’s _mountain ash!_ ” Stiles says, grabbing it back excitedly. “That’s so cool! I’ve never even seen it in person before. They didn’t send very much, did they? I mean, I dunno how thin you can spread it, but it only looks like enough to circle, like, one person. Although I guess that’s all I really need, huh?”

 

He looks back at Derek, whose concerned frown has reappeared. Maybe he’s not a fan of the stuff? Stiles supposes he wouldn’t be, either, if it was practically the only thing on Earth that could trap him. Not like he’s about to trap Derek, but okay, whatever. He sets the jar back in the box; out of sight, out of mind.

 

“Think this is the last thing,” he says, pulling out a plastic Tupperware and plucking off the note taped to the top. “It says, ‘Dear Stiles: Hope you’re feeling better! Here’s a few things to raise your defenses (and your spirits!) for the full moon. Some of it won’t come in much handy yet, and we doubt it’ll come down to it, but I’d be more than happy to give you a little basic self-defense training if you feel the need. There’s a little bit of mountain ash in there (the black powder), and some wolfsbane extract (the blue liquid) if worse comes to worst in close quarters. Enjoy the cookies! Best Regards, Allison and Christopher Argent.’ And then there’s a smiley face.”

 

It’s all written in small, neat script, and Stiles is more than a little sure Allison was the one to write the note. And most especially the one to make the cookies.

 

“You know, you’d normally expect hunter families to be a little gruffer, but Allison’s been really sweet,” he says, opening the box and taking one, then offering them to Derek. “She was even texting me the other day, saying she hoped I was feeling okay and stuff. She seems really nice.”

 

Derek takes a cookie, too, and seems to inspect it for a moment before he takes a bite. There’s an even longer pause before he gives a slow nod.

 

“She does.”

 

For whatever reason he seems a little uncomfortable, and abruptly stands, clearing his throat.

 

“I’m going to go see if Erica’s awake yet,” he says. “She was supposed to go grocery shopping with me this morning, and we should leave before the store gets crowded.”

 

He’s halfway across the room before Stiles manages to get out an, “Oh, alright, cool.”

 

Huh. That was kind of weird.

 

Stiles shrugs it off, though.

 

Derek’s probably just feeling strange from the oncoming full moon.

* * *

 

“So lemme get this straight,” Erica says, buckling herself into the front seat of Derek’s Camaro. “I have to come to the grocery store at nine in the morning because you told Stiles I promised to come shopping today? Why couldn’t _Isaac_ have promised?”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek mutters. “Because your name came to mind first.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving a hand at him. “Why don’t you tell me why your mind needed a name at all? Cause man, you’re lucky I already had my makeup on.”

* * *

 

“Uh huh,” Erica hums, picking up a can of diced tomatoes. “Well it sounds to me like somebody’s jealous.”

 

“It’s not- I’m not _jealous_.”

 

Derek had spent the car ride over explaining the brief events of the morning, from making Stiles breakfast to receiving the package from the Argents.

 

“Oh, please. Don’t act like you’re not all moony-eyed over Stiles. No pun intended.”

 

Derek shoots her a glare from the corner of his eye as he picks up two more cans, but it’s not like he can defend himself. Even if Erica couldn’t smell it on him, she’s always been perceptive about this kind of thing. It was funny when Isaac had a crush on some girl in his psych class last year, but now? Not so much. Besides, knowing Erica, she probably figured it out long before Derek did himself.

 

“That’s what I thought,” she says, looking smug when he doesn’t answer. “And considering the thought of him saying what a sweetheart Allison is bugs you so much, I think jealous is a pretty safe bet.”

 

“It’s not that,” Derek grumbles, dropping the cans into the cart with a bang. Erica raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him and he tugs at her elbow, pulling her in closer. “Just-” He glances around, glad the aisle is still empty. “I-” Maybe the middle of Stop & Shop isn’t the best place for this conversation. “I don’t know.” He lets go of her jacket, starting back down the aisle. “It’s stupid. Never mind.”

 

He can feel Erica’s eyes boring into him as he pushes the cart away, and he knows with certainty that this conversation isn’t over.

* * *

Surprisingly, they make it all the way home before Erica brings it back up.

 

“You’re upset because she’s an Argent,” she says matter-of-factly.

 

She’s busy fiddling around in the fridge, and Derek doesn’t think she’ll make him have this conversation if he doesn’t want to. That, of course, only makes him feel more like he ought to have it.

 

“Kind of,” he agrees, voice low. “It’s a combination of things.”

 

“Like?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“It’s not a _problem_ that she’s an Argent. She’s not… she’s not _Kate_ , or something. She’s not even Victoria. I mean, looking back at… at Kate, I can see the signs that should’ve tipped me off about her. I know Allison’s not like her. All the shitty Argents are dead, and Chris and Allison have been good for years. She could even hate us, if she was backwards enough to blame us for what happened with Kate and Gerard, but she doesn’t. She’s been nothing but nice. And-” He huffs a long breath. “And I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t want to like her,” Erica says gently, looking over at him. Derek catches her gaze over his shoulder for a moment before turning back to the counter. “That’s okay. She may not be Kate, and hey, she may even be Kate’s exact opposite, but she’s still an Argent. You don’t have to like her. And you don’t have to be comfortable with a guy you’re trying so hard to protect being all buddy-buddy with her.”

 

“But it’s _stupid_ ,” Derek grumbles. He’s annoyed with himself, not Erica, and he hopes she gets that. “I don’t _own him_. The Argents, let alone Allison, never did anything to him. Erica, she even sent him _just_ enough mountain ash to circle himself, not anywhere near enough to do the whole house, just to make Cora, Peter, and me more comfortable. And I don’t even know if he likes her, so I’m just being controlling and… and _ridiculous_. I just felt uncomfortable anyway, with the Argents sending him all that crazy stuff," which frankly, bothered him more than he'd care to admit, "and then add the Allison thing on top of it, and- I don't know. It's not what I needed that early in the morning. Besides, even if he does like Allison, it’s probably better for him to have someone human, anyway. He’s so much better about it now, but who knows if he’ll ever feel fully safe around werewolves? And an alpha?" He sighs, fully aware how petulant he sounds. "It’s not realistic.”

 

The rustling from behind him comes to a sudden halt, and Derek turns to look. Erica’s standing with her hands on her hips, a box of cereal clutched tightly in the left, frowning hard.

 

“That’s stupid.”

 

Derek blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t say that. It’s _stupid_.”

 

“It’s not stupid, it’s true.”

 

“ _One_ ,” Erica says, “that family did something awful to you, and you could be a petty asshole and refuse to interact with them at all, but instead you’re foregoing your own comfort to get Stiles the best help available. So you don’t _have_ to _like_ them. You don’t even have to tolerate them, but you are. So don’t go beating yourself up just because you’re not writing odes to Allison, no matter how nice a person she is. _Two_ , it’s better for him to have someone human? Derek, Stiles is a big boy. He can make his own decisions. His best friend is a werewolf. _Ah_ -” she says loudly, when Derek tries to interrupt, “don’t go saying he’s a beta, doofus. It’s the same thing. You don’t go around with red eyes 24/7. You’ve been working hard to make him feel safe, and if last night was anything to go by, he does feel pretty safe around you. _Three_ , like you said, we don’t even know if he likes Allison. She could easily be being friendly, and he could be glad to have a human friend. _Not_ because there’s anything wrong with us, but because she’s just more relatable or whatever. Frankly, based on the way he acts, I’d say he probably does like you back, but.” She shrugs. “Who knows? Either way, don’t beat yourself up over it. Otherwise I’ll beat you up,” she says, shaking the box of Lucky Charms in what Derek guesses is meant to be a menacing way. “Got it, punk?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” he says, rolling his eyes, even though he knows she can see right through him, and how much he appreciates it.

 

“This is why you’re a punk,” Erica says, smirking. Her tone is more serious when she adds, “You know I mean it though, right?”

 

He nods, and she gives a warm smile.

 

“Good. C’mon, let’s go make sure all the preparations for the full moon are in order. And then you can go check on Stiles, Romeo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas/happy holidays, and that you have a nice New Year!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be real... does anything _good_ ever happen on a full moon?

“The moon is just wonderful out here tonight, folks,” the newswoman, Katie Miller, according to the banner at the bottom of the screen, says. The camera pans to the sky over the beach; it’s just starting to get dark, and the California water reflects the light beautifully. “Nothing better than an August full moon, huh? Just ask little Harold Spencer here,” she adds, and the view switches to a tiny baby, swaddled in blankets and cradled in his mother’s arms. “This cutie pie sure seems to be enjoying it, am I right?”

 

“Oh, he is,” the mother says, smiling softly down at her child. “It’s such a lovely night for his first. I wasn’t sure about taking him out, but I’m glad I did.”

 

The camera zooms in on the baby’s face, and it stares back with enormous blue eyes, as it sucks contentedly on its thumb.

 

“Think we’ll see a shift tonight?” Katie asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

 

The mother laughs.

 

“Not much more than his hair, I don’t think.” She pulls the blanket back a little, revealing teeny tiny sideburns, barely more than peach fuzz. “His brother only had his fangs start to come in a few months ago, and he just turned three.”

 

“Oh, can we say hi to that little guy?”

 

“He’s right over there with his father,” the woman says, leading the camera a few feet away.

 

It focuses in on a small child building a sandcastle. His eyebrows are thick and bushy, as are his sideburns, and one tiny fang is peeking over his bottom lip.

 

Even Stiles has to admit he looks adorable.

 

“Mommy!” he says, perking up when he sees her. He grabs his top lip and yanks it upwards, letting her see the tooth better. “Mommy, Mommy, look, it came back!”

 

“He can’t control his shift yet, of course,” the mother laughs, bending down to ruffle his hair. “He gets so excited when his fang comes out on the full moon.”

 

“He’ll be even more excited when the rest come in, huh?”

 

“Yes!” the boy says, moving his face in close to the camera to show it off. His speech is muffled by the two fingers he has crammed in his mouth, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. “Yep, yep, yep! ‘m gonna be big ‘n’ strong just like Daddy!” He stumbles back a few steps and rakes a clawless hand through the air. “Grrr! Right, Daddy? Right?!”

 

“Right, kiddo,” the dad says, smiling as he scoops his son up in his arms.

 

He closes his eyes for a moment, and Stiles flips channels before he can get a chance to make them glow.

 

Cute, blunt-fanged babies are one thing—progress, if he does say so himself—but he’s still gonna hold off on full grown werewolves for a while.

* * *

“Alright, I think everything’s set,” Isaac says, flopping down on the couch. The rest of the pack is already in the living room, watching TV. “Allison said she and Chris have been out patrolling for hours, and so far everything is quiet. Dunno if that’s a good or bad thing, but y’know.” He shrugs. “I think we can settle in for a calm night.”

 

“Good,” Derek says. “There’s a Dodgers game on if you guys want.”

 

“Boooooo,” Stiles hums under his breath. “The Dodgers suck.”

 

“And the Mets are doing so much better?” Derek laughs.

 

He loves baseball, and despite growing up in California he’s a Mets guy himself, but even _he_ knows the Mets aren’t making it this year.

 

“Hey, as long as they’re still in the running, they have a shot,” Stiles insists.

 

Isaac scoffs.

 

“Dude, they’re like one game away from being out for the season. Just admit that the Dodgers are a better team. It’ll make your whole life easier.”

 

“Screw you,” Stiles mutters, crossing his arms. “World Series wins aren’t everything, and a _true_ fan sticks with his team.”

 

The whole pack is sprawled around the living room, and thankfully no one else is getting involved, because this could turn into an all-out war with Cora if the Padres get insulted. Derek knows Isaac, who probably can’t even name five Dodgers players, is only doing it to rile Stiles up, but he’s certainly not going to interrupt. Stiles is oddly endearing when he starts flailing his arms—his entire body, at times, if he’s making a particularly important point—and huffing about things he’s passionate about.

 

“Look, man,” Isaac says. “World Series wins may not mean everything, but considering you guys have only won _twice_ …”

 

“You’ve only won four more times than us!” Stiles huffs. “And that’s only because you-”

 

Derek never does get to hear Stiles explain what makes the Mets so superior, because just then he’s interrupted by a long, low howl.

 

A hush immediately falls over the room, and someone fumbles for the TV remote, muting the background noise. Derek already set out a warning to all of Beacon Hills to please not shift publicly tonight, and an alpha’s orders are taken seriously. Still, one could just be a slipup, if it didn’t sound so _close_. Stiles’ right arm, which he’d been waving around while he talked, stops at an odd angle, midair. They’re all silent for a few moments, nearly frozen in place, till a second, different howl comes echoing through the night.

 

Derek is on his feet in a flash, quickly followed by the betas as they clumsily disentangle themselves from one another. Stiles, on the other hand, doesn't move a muscle. 

 

Once the wolves are all standing they stay perfectly still, waiting. A third howl pierces the air, yet another new voice, and they all turn to Derek, frantic.

 

Peter is the only exception; he looks cool and calculating, head tilted in the direction from which the noise came, and Derek supposes it’s a good thing. He needs someone who can keep their calm.

 

“That was on our territory,” Peter announces. “Maybe a mile off.”

 

“You coming with me?” Derek asks. Peter nods, looking grim. “The rest of you stay here, and someone call Chris. And take Stiles to the tunnels in the basement. Lock the door.”

 

“No way,” Cora says, and thankfully Stiles can’t see her mouthful of fangs from this angle. “We’re not just _staying here_.”

 

“There could be five alphas out there,” Derek says, already halfway to the door, with Peter close behind. “So yes, you _are_.”

 

“Yeah, there could be _five_ alphas out there, so you’re not going alone.”

 

“She’s right,” Boyd says. “It’s not a good idea.”

 

“And letting my betas try to fight them is?”

 

Derek’s standing in the foyer, fists clenched, and if Stiles weren’t here he’d be glowing his eyes at them. He doesn’t have _time_ for this, and he’s not letting his entire pack risk their lives.

 

“Better than you and Peter getting your asses kidnapped or killed,” Cora snaps. “Why can Peter go?”

 

“Because _Peter’s_ been in a fight before,” Peter says, matter-of-factly. “You’re practically children. If there’s a problem, I’d like to know there’s someone at home to call for help so we don’t all just disappear off the face of the Earth without a trace.”

 

“ _Bullshit_. We’re old enough to make our-”

 

Another howl cuts her off, and Stiles flinches sharply.

 

“Fuck,” Derek hisses. “ _Fuck_. Can you just- Just _stay here_. I’m not letting you get hurt. Peter, let’s _go_.”

 

He locks eyes with each of the betas in a silent command, or a silent plea, maybe, before he heads outside.

 

Peter slams the door shut behind them.

* * *

There’s a momentary pause, before Cora says, “Fuck that. Boyd, Erica, you coming?”

 

They share a brief glance before they both nod, already starting for the back door.

 

“Isaac, do what Derek said,” Cora orders, following after them. “Make sure he’s safe. And call the police while you’re at it. I don’t give a fuck if Haigh doesn’t want to get his lazy ass involved. Maybe the guy who pays his salary getting kidnapped’ll be enough to make him _do_ something.”

 

“Wait!” Isaac calls, just as the back door opens. Cora pokes her head back in the room, glaring impatiently. “I- I can’t. The tunnels. I, uh-”

 

“Crap, right,” Erica says, appearing back in the doorframe with Boyd. “Small spaces. Sorry, Isaac. I’ll stay with him.”

 

Isaac shoots her a grateful look, and she gives a strained smile.

 

“Be careful,” she says, wrapping Boyd in a tight, quick hug. “You guys, too.”

 

“Course,” Isaac says, going to stand with the rest of them. “It’ll be fine.”

 

With that they split up, Cora, Isaac, and Boyd hurrying outside, and Erica moving to stand over Stiles.

 

“Here,” she says, grabbing his crutches from where they’re leaning against the couch and laying them next to him. He doesn’t really need them for short distances anymore when he’s wearing his ankle brace, but with the way he’s already shaking, they’re probably a good idea. “Where’s the mountain ash?”

 

“Drawer,” Stiles says numbly, and she rushes over to get it from the coffee table. He’s been listening to the whole exchange with a kind of distant horror, and actually having to get up and hide is making it all too real.

 

Erica pats herself down, looking for her phone as she whirls back around.

 

“You have your cell? I don’t know what I did with mine.”

 

Stiles nods, throat clicking heavily as he swallows.

 

“Awesome,” she says. “Let’s go.”

 

Stiles, who’s still frozen in place, finally starts to snap out of it. The crutches wobble under his trembling arms, clacking loudly against the floor as he struggles to his feet, slowing his progress. Erica slides an arm around his waist once he’s standing, supporting more of his weight than Stiles would care to admit as they hurry towards the basement.

 

They reach the foyer, and Stiles casts a quick glance at the front door, like a rabid alpha is going to crash through it at any moment. Which, technically, they could. He feels his breathing speed up a little more.

 

“C’mon,” Erica says, drawing his attention again as she pulls him towards the basement stairs. “We’ve gotta move.”

 

Stiles’ mind is starting to completely devolve into panic, and by the time Erica locks the door behind them and pulls out a brick in the wall to enter a code in a hidden keypad, making a large section of the wall swing open to reveal a dark tunnel, he barely has the presence of mind to wonder why the hell the Hales have all these insane precautions built into their house.

 

Stiles has to crouch down to enter, and Erica presses a button on the tunnel wall, making the door swing shut behind them with a definitive thud, leaving them in total darkness.

 

Stiles immediately drops the rest of the way to the floor, his back pressed against the cold stone.

 

“Here, I need your phone,” Erica says, her hand landing on his knee.

 

Stiles fumbles around in his pocket and has to enter the passcode twice before his shaking fingers manage it. Erica takes it and turns on the flashlight, making them both blink a little as light floods the tunnel. Stiles wraps his arms around his knees, breaths coming too fast as Erica dials the phone. He finds himself slowly counting the seconds that go by, something he hasn’t felt the compulsion to do in weeks. Something he hasn’t done since the first time he was locked down here.

 

_One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…_

 

“Spread this,” Erica says, jamming the phone between her ear and shoulder and unscrewing the mountain ash, shoving the jar at him. “We’ll be fine.”

 

_Six one-thousand, seven one-thousand…._

 

“Stiles?” Allison asks, worry evident in her tone at being called tonight.

 

The ash doesn’t even come close to forming a perfect circle as he spreads it with trembling hands, but he manages to get it around Erica and himself in a small, close ring. Erica pushes her hand against it, and the circle glows blue and doesn’t budge.

 

Stiles listens to the conversation in a detached sort of way, Allison’s voice just loud enough for him to make out, as he buries his face in his knees, trying to slow his breathing.

 

_Ten one-thousand, eleven one-thousand, twelve one-thousand…_

“See? It’s fine,” Erica says under her breath. Then, to Allison, “Hey, no, it’s Erica. We need your help.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“A few people were just howling outside the house. Peter thought it was probably a mile or so away, and that was a good three or four minutes ago. He’s out there right now with Derek. Boyd, Isaac, and Cora are out there somewhere too.”

 

_Seventeen one-thousand, eighteen one-thousand, nineteen one-thousand…_

 

Allison relays all the information to Chris.

 

“Where are you and Stiles?”     

 

“Locked in the basement.”

 

She doesn’t mention the strange tunnels, but that’s the least of Stiles’ concerns.

 

“Good. Stay there. Let us know if anything changes. We’re on our way.”

_Twenty-three one-thousand…_

 

“Great. Please hurry.”

Erica hangs up the phone, setting it face down on the ground, the flashlight throwing long shadows.

 

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine,” she says, nudging his ankle with her foot. “Derek’s gonna take care of everything.”

 

_Twenty-five one-thousand, twenty-six one-thousand…_

 

“Stiles?”

 

“I’m fine,” he says, not caring that his voice comes out strangled or that Erica can hear his heartbeat skip or that even a three-year-old could tell he’s lying. “It’s fine.”

 

It’s not fine, of course. It’s so, _so_ far from fine. They’re going to hurt not only him, which is awful enough on its own, but they’re going to hurt Derek’s pack, who’ve done nothing but try to help, and it’s all his fault.

 

He’s vaguely aware that Erica’s still talking to him in a constant, quiet stream, but he has no idea what she’s saying, nor can he bring himself to care right now. She picks up the phone and calls someone else, probably the police, and starts talking to him again as soon as she’s off the phone.

 

He can’t help the images flying through his mind, of Isaac and Erica and Cora and Boyd and Peter in chains, and Derek somewhere worse, probably—Derek _dead_ , probably, because they don’t need any alphas around to challenge them. Would he have to betray Scott, then? Could he watch the Hales be tortured or killed if it meant protecting Scott? He knows he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ watch even a fraction of what happened to him happen to someone else, but he also knows he couldn’t turn his back on Scott. That’s how he’s hardwired. Protect Scott; protect Dad; protect Melissa; protect yourself. Family comes first. Everyone else comes after.

 

But would it really be that bad? Even if he told the alphas everything there is to tell about Scott, even if they learned his every weakness, exactly what makes him tick, exactly how they could get him on their side… Would it even matter? Scott would never willingly join them. He might if it meant saving his mother’s life, though, or Stiles’ or John’s.

 

When it comes right down to it, Scott’s values are right there next to Stiles’. He’d always put everyone else before himself.

 

Still, Stiles could never let the Hales suffer. 

 

Shit.

 

_It’s probably a hundred by now. A hundred? A hundred one-thousand, a hundred and one one-thousand, and hundred and two one-thousand…_

 

Everyone is going to die.

 

It’s all his fault.

 

He let the Hales get involved with him.

 

He was stupid enough to get kidnapped in the first place.

 

For all his secret-keeping, it’s not even going to matter, because now everyone he cares about is going to be fucking dead anyway.

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck.

 

_Fuck._

 

“Stiles!”

 

Erica’s voice finally manages to pierce through the haze.

 

“Stiles, you’re hyperventilating. You need to calm down. _Stiles_. I swear to God, you’re going to be fine, okay? No one is going to get hurt.”

 

She’s starting to sounds a little hysterical herself, and Stiles thinks of how awful it must be to have Boyd out there without her.

 

“I’m fine,” he manages. “’m fine.”

 

He’s still breathing far too fast, and his chest is pounding, but apparently just hearing him talk is enough for Erica.

 

“Oh, thank fuck. Okay. You’re fine. Look, Derek’s gonna be back any minute, alright?” The lightness of her voice is very clearly forced, but Stiles doesn’t care. “Everyone is going to be fine. He’s an alpha too, y’know. Those biceps aren’t just for show, okay? He’s gonna kick some serious ass. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“There’s five of them,” Stiles says hollowly. He pushes a hand against his chest in a futile attempt to calm himself. “Five.”

 

“ _Maybe_ five,” Erica says. “We only heard three. And no matter what happens, we’re safe down here, okay? Mountain ash is fine and dandy,” except it’s not, not really, because if Morrell is with them, and suddenly decides she’s no longer interested in Stiles’ wellbeing, that mountain ash means _nothing_ , “but hidden panels in the wall are pretty great too, alright? This thing leads out to the woods. We’re not trapped, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

 

“You don’t know what they’re like,” Stiles says. Snippets of memories rush at him, from claws in his chest to flames licking against his back, and the urge to gag hits him out of nowhere. He claps a hand over his mouth, but nothing happens except his breath catching in his throat and a few spluttering coughs. “ _Erica_ , they’ll-”

 

“They won’t do _anything_ ,” she interrupts firmly, grasping one of his hands with both of hers. “No one is going to do _anything_.”

 

“You don’t-” Stiles starts, but the blaring ringtone of his phone cuts him off this time, making both of them jump.

 

Erica grabs it, and Stiles catches Derek’s name on the screen before she presses it to her ear.

 

“What’s happening?” she demands.

 

“We’re fine,” Derek says, voice sounding tight and angry and exhausted through the line. “I told you guys to stay _home_.”

 

“I _am_ home,” Erica snaps. “What’s going on?”

 

“It wasn’t alphas,” Derek huffs. Relief like Stiles has only felt once before—the time he left the basement, when he realized he was finally, finally free—floods him. He suddenly feels like he’s floating. He’s overwhelmed with emotion— _which_ emotions, he can’t even begin to pick apart. Derek’s voice is a little harder to make out now, and Stiles can tell he’s panting. “Just an omega. _One_ omega. I’m sending a picture. It’s kind of graphic. Tell me if Stiles knows who he is.”

 

Seconds later Erica pulls the phone from her ear and turns it on speaker, then opens the text and passes the phone to Stiles.

 

There’s a man wolfed out and laying on his back on the ground, but Stiles forces himself to look. He has long, jet black hair and glowing yellow eyes. His beard is scraggly and sticky with blood, and Stiles has to look away for a second. The cheekbones are hollow and the jawline is sharp, and there’s more blood trickling from his nose. He’s no one that Stiles has ever seen before. 

 

“I don’t know him,” he says, simultaneously relieved and depressed. If they had managed to catch one of the alphas, that would’ve been incredible, but he’s glad that at least tonight is not a night he’ll have to face one of them. “Never seen him before.”

 

Derek curses under his breath, then must pull the phone away for a second as he says something inaudible to someone else.

 

“He’s telling Haigh to take the guy down to the station,” Erica informs Stiles quietly. Stiles has to wonder how long he spent panicking that Haigh is there already. “The Argents will deal with him there. Derek’s going to go talk to him tomorrow after the moon passes. They did a lap of the perimeter, and no one else is around. They’re heading back to the house now.”

* * *

The omega watches Derek with terrified eyes as he’s loaded into the police car. Derek would probably feel worse about having had to roar someone into submission if he hadn’t managed to scare Stiles so badly. It seems like he’s just a rogue omega who lost control and happened to end up on the worst possible territory tonight, but Derek still isn’t happy with him. He can’t get the image of Stiles’ pale, scared face out of his head.

 

He stalks back towards the house, the rest of the pack following closely behind and occasionally murmuring amongst themselves. When they’re a good distance away from the scene, Derek rounds on them.

 

“I told you to stay _home_ ,” he snarls. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down a little before the adrenaline can get to him too much. After losing his family to hunters once, the last thing he needs is to lose everyone he has left to a pack of fellow wolves. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

 

Peter moves to stand behind Derek, arms folded as he stares down the younger pack members. Cora glares defiantly back at them, Boyd folds his arms to match Peter’s, and Isaac’s gaze flits to the ground. He, at least, seems properly abashed, but Derek can’t look at him for long, because the way Isaac tends to fold in on himself when anyone is seriously mad at him, even after all these years, is enough to make Derek’s resolve crumble.

 

“Look,” he sighs, rubbing a tired hand against his forehead. “You can’t scare me like that, okay?” He and Peter had picked up on Cora’s scent not long after leaving the house, and Boyd and Isaac’s soon after. Having Peter there was unfortunate but necessary, but three more of his betas? And then, of course, he’d had to worry about what had happened to Erica that he wasn’t able to smell _her_ , before he realized she’d probably been left to deal with Stiles. “If I give a direct order, I expect you to follow it.”

 

“Because you’re going to take on five alphas?” Cora scoffs.

 

“And _you_ are?”

 

Being alpha to your uncle, your little sister, and a few friends really has its downside. He’s not his mother—she would’ve been keeping them quiet with her eyes alone, and doling out punishments for the disobedience. But no, he’s certainly not Talia. She was loving but firm, and he's... He doesn't even know what he is. He's just the guy who was never supposed to be alpha. Asserting his dominance over them to get their compliance always feels wrong. Besides, it’s been a long day. He just wants them all home and safe.

 

“We’ll be better prepared next time,” he says instead. “I want everyone home and in bed. If anyone does something idiotic like that again, you’re going to be in serious trouble. I don’t need anyone else I care about getting hurt.”

 

The genuine worry must work better than anger, anyway, because no one talks back.

 

Isaac and Boyd nod seriously, and Cora gives him a tight, mirthless smile. Well, it’s something.

 

“I’m glad you’re all okay,” he sighs, after a moment. Then, reluctantly, he adds, “Thank you for wanting to come. Not for _coming_ , because it was _stupid_ , and you’d better not do something like that again, but…”

 

He nods firmly, and that’s enough for Cora, who slings an arm around his shoulders and squeezes, turning them back around and heading for the house. Isaac and Boyd crowd close behind, Peter bringing up the rear.

* * *

The door swings open out of nowhere. It makes sense, of course, that Derek would have a spare basement key and know the passcode for the wall in his own house, but it’s still enough to make Stiles flinch.

 

He and Erica haven’t left the tunnel yet, wanting to wait till everyone returns and they’re certain that it’s safe. Stiles’ eyes have to readjust to the bright light of the basement, and he blinks a few times.

 

His throat tightens at the blood smeared across the right side of Peter’s otherwise pristine white V-neck, and even further when he sees Derek standing there with five long claw marks raked through his left arm near the elbow, with a few smaller scratches on both his forearms, and a rip in his jeans at the ankle.

 

He’s frozen for a moment, staring, till Erica nudges him, glancing between him and the ash a few times. Stiles takes the hint and snaps back to life, breaking the circle. He crawls the short distance out of the tunnel, and still feels wobbly once he gets on his feet. He’s certain his face is puffy and tear-streaked, but it’s the least of his worries.

 

Erica quickly follows him out, and while Cora and Isaac seem unscathed, Boyd has a small gash in his cheek, slowly dripping blood. She hurries over and wipes a thumb across it, draining pain as she does. Boyd gently removes her hand from his face and pulls her close, murmuring something low in her ear.

 

Stiles turns away from them, giving them their privacy, and his eyes gravitate back to Derek.

 

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, frowning.

 

Embarrassment suddenly floods Stiles, from the way he froze up and left Derek to deal with his problems, to having a panic attack over some stupid, random omega, and he does his best to tamp down on it.

 

“Me?” Stiles asks, glad his voice sounds at least a tiny bit stronger than he feels. “I’m not the one bleeding all over the floor.”

 

Derek glances down at himself, as if noticing this for the first time.

 

“I’m fine,” he says. “It was just an omega. They can make themselves sound like a whole pack when they want to, to ward off predators. Or just if they’ve lost control, apparently.” Stiles nods. Basic werewolf knowledge, of course, but it certainly hadn’t occurred to any of them. “I’m really sorry about this,” Derek continues, eyes suddenly sad and worried, not even a hint of his rough edges present. “We should’ve had some better plan in place to protect you. I don’t want you to ever feel unsafe-”

 

Before he gets a chance to finish, and before Stiles gets a chance to think better of it, he throws himself at Derek in a hug, careful to mind his injuries.

 

“Shut up,” he mumbles into Derek’s shoulder. “Thanks for protecting me.”

 

The room is deathly silent, and Stiles tries really hard not to think about how awkward this probably looks, or how stiffly Derek is standing, or why, exactly, he thought this was a good idea. Right when he’s about to pull back, though, Derek finally moves, wrapping his arms carefully around Stiles and patting his back a few times.

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice hoarse and stilted. It’s a little softer when he says, “Yeah. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does a hug make up for 4.5k of angst? I hope you guys enjoyed, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)
> 
> *Also, for those who don't remember from way back in season two, it's actually canon that a single wolf can make itself sound like a whole pack. Just so it doesn't seem ridiculous ;)


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday is not my ideal posting time for this particular update, but you guys have waited long enough for a new chapter, so here we go! Anyway, _drumroll, please!_ ;)

“I have two kids, Alpha,” the omega says, hanging his head. His name is Jeremy Roberts. He’s thirty-three years old. He’s from the neighboring county. He’s also, apparently, a father. “Someone needs to be there when they wake up.”

 

“We’ll take care of it,” Derek says. “Are they werewolves too?”

 

“The youngest is. She’s not old enough to shift yet. Only two. My other daughter is seven.”

 

Derek nods at the deputy who’d been waiting with them, who hurries off to check on them.

 

“And why did _you_ shift last night? You went pretty wild.”

 

The man glances guiltily at Derek’s left arm, where the scratches have already healed.

 

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I haven’t lost control since I was a kid. My wife…” He shakes his head. “My wife was our alpha. Nothing’s been the same since she left.”

 

A spouse leaving hurts. An alpha leaving… Derek can start to see how the guy lost it.

 

“Why didn’t you call someone?” he asks, frowning. “You must’ve realized your control was slipping."

 

“I _did_ ,” Jeremy says. “I have a few family friends living two territories over from mine, right on the eastern outskirts of Beacon County. It’s not _their_ territory, they’re just a family pack living under Alpha Dominguez, but my friend is an alpha too, and she said she would come by and make sure I stayed in control. Ten minutes after we got off the phone I really started to lose it. I knew I couldn’t stay in the house with my girls there, so I just ran. I guess I was drawn to you because you’re an alpha,” he says, shrugging and casting his eyes away. “I’m sorry. I never meant any harm to your pack. I just didn’t want my kids to get hurt.”

 

Derek considers him for a moment.

 

He’s a good seven years older than Derek, but he still looks painfully young past the scraggly beard and the dark circles around his eyes. There’s enough of him still there to see that he’s probably good-looking when he’s taking care of himself, and it’s a shame to see the toll his alpha abandoning him has taken. Derek would hate to see the kids.

 

“Losing pack is hard,” he says finally. “But you’re lucky you ended up on my territory instead of in the city. If you’d attacked an innocent civilian, I wouldn’t be able to pardon you.”

 

Jeremy perks up a little, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

 

“Go to that pack,” Derek continues. “See if the alpha will take you in. If not, I at least want you with her, or someone who can keep you in control, on all the coming full moons till you’re okay again. Even then, I recommend searching for a new alpha. As hard as it is for you not to have one, it’ll be even worse for your daughter when she’s learning control.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Jeremy says. “Absolutely. I will. It won’t happen again.”

 

“Good,” Derek says firmly. “I’ll go tell Haigh you’re officially pardoned. Get back to your kids.”

 

“Yes, Alpha,” Jeremy says, nodding vigorously. “Thank you, Alpha.”

 

Derek nods once, turning to go. He only makes it a few feet before Jeremy pipes up, “Uh… Alpha Hale?”

 

“Yes?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow as he turns back around.

 

“I heard on the news about that guy you’ve been taking care of. I hope I didn’t scare him too badly. Think you could tell him sorry for me? And the family, too? I know I wouldn’t want my kids upset like that.”

 

* * *

 

“At least the sonofabitch knew he messed up,” John grumbles.

 

He knows how hard it is to lose your wife as well as anyone, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about his son being scared half to death. He Skyped to check in on how the full moon went first thing in the morning, and wasn’t particularly pleased to hear the answer was _not good._

 

“It’s fine, Dad,” Stiles sighs. “Derek took care of everything. And when he left this morning he said we were gonna talk later about putting a new plan in place. Or, like, _a_ plan in place. We didn’t exactly have one before except to let the Argents handle things.”

 

“Good,” John says. “Now… Listen, Stiles. I actually need to talk to you about Derek. It’s part of the reason I called.”

 

“What is it?” Stiles asks, leaning forward in bed a little. The betas didn’t leave like they normally do when Stiles wants some privacy, but are rather sitting downstairs, playing the TV loud enough that Stiles can just barely hear it from his room. Without anyone saying so, they knew he wouldn’t want to be left alone after the events of last night, and now, thankfully, he trusts them enough to know they won’t eavesdrop on him. “Did he say something to you?”

 

“No,” his father sighs. “Actually… I said something to him.”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, fingers drumming against the edge of the laptop Erica lent him.

 

“Uhh… You wanna elaborate a little on that, Dad?”

 

John frowns, rubbing his left hand, the elbow of which is propped on his desk at work, against his scruff. He never used to have scruff, before.

 

“About Morrell, Stiles. I told him.”

 

Stiles blinks. Once, twice.

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

“I told Derek about-”

 

“Dad!” Stiles practically squawks. “Oh my God. You said you wouldn’t! You- _Why?_ When? Oh my God, does everyone else know too? What about Scott? _Dad_ , you-”

 

“Stiles,” John interrupts firmly. “Calm down, son. Everything is fine. Will you let me explain?”

 

Stiles huffs, folding his arms across his chest and settling back further against the bed, which John takes as his cue to go on.

 

“Stiles, Derek knew you were hiding things. It can’t have been hard to tell, after spending enough time with you. He… _suggested_ that you might not be telling him all the facts, and he’d pieced the reasons it all didn’t add up together pretty well. I didn’t tell him the second he mentioned it, but after a while it only made sense. He brought up how the first time I talked to you, you mentioned a woman who was working with the alphas helping you escape, and that when you retold your story to the hunters, you left her out. He didn’t force me to tell him, but that’s a good thing, Stiles—he wanted to help, but he wasn’t going to demand information out of us.

 

“It was that day I called him to talk about the notes the alphas left me, and that on top of everything else? I had to tell him, Stiles. _You_ are my top priority, and I need to keep you safe. We’re putting an awful lot of faith in a woman who you don’t even want to reveal the existence of, don’t you think? To me, it sounds like we need to catch her just as badly as we need to catch the alphas, and the hunters need all the information they can get if they’re trying to track these people. Derek promised it would stay between us, them, and Deaton. Even his betas don’t know. But I had to tell _someone_ , Stiles. There’s only so much I can do from across the country—where I’m staying because the woman working with my son’s kidnappers _told me to_ , by the way—and if I can’t take care of you, I need to make sure someone is. Can you please try to understand that?”

 

Stiles sighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to collect himself. It’s nearly impossible to be mad at his father these days, especially when he was only trying to protect him, but _still_.

 

“What about Scott?” he asks, looking back at his dad.

 

“You know I care about Scott like he’s my own son, too, Stiles. I told him, after, and he was fine with it.” Of course he was, he’s _Scott_. “He’s not going to be in any more danger than any of us already are because of this. It’s not like Morrell knows they’re looking for her now. Nothing’s going to happen to any of us just because the hunters know about her, except that maybe we’ll be safe again sooner rather than later. I would never do anything I thought would put either of you boys in danger. You know that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, of course. I’m sorry, I just-”

 

“Don’t be,” John interrupts. “ _I’m_ sorry. I should’ve told you earlier, but… it just kills me to see you so worried all the time, kid. You’ve already got enough on your plate, and I hate to be the one to add more stress. But last night with the moon and all, I kept thinking about her, and all of _them_ , and I figured it was wrong to keep it from you any longer.”

 

Stiles offers a weak smile. Of course his dad was only trying to help. Probably _did_ help. Who knows how long it would’ve been before he worked up the nerve to say anything about Morrell, or if he would’ve done it at all.

 

“It’s cool, Dad. It’s probably a good thing.”

 

“I hope you think so,” John says, giving a tired smile in return. “I wouldn’t have done it unless I did. Now, why don’t you tell me more about this new plan of Derek’s?”

 

“I don’t know, actually,” Stiles says. “He said we’re gonna talk about it tonight, but I’ll clue you in when we figure something out.”

 

“Alright, kiddo. I’ve gotta get back to work now, then, but keep in touch, okay? Love you.”

 

“I will. And uh, thanks. For trying to take care of me. I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

“So just out of curiosity,” Cora says. She’s sitting across from Derek at the kitchen table, after having made them both sandwiches. “How long are you planning on fawning over Stiles before you do something about it?”

 

“What?” Derek snaps defensively. “I’m not- I don’t-”

 

“Fawn over him? Wanna date him? Wanna _mate_ him? Okey-dokey, Der.”

 

Derek glares.

 

“I don’t want to do _anything_ with him.”

 

She only smirks, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her PB&J.

 

“Say what you will, but I know what emotions smell like, thank you very much. Besides, I’d be surprised if _he_ didn’t know. In case ya haven’t noticed, you tend to watch him do things with this dopey little smile on your face.”

 

At least that, Derek is sure, is an exaggeration.

 

“C’mon,” she continues. “When he got downstairs for the first time? When he gets all worked up and starts flailing around? When he cracks jokes?”

 

“He’s funny,” Derek defends. “That’s different. And you’re the one who’s been mocking me for—how many years?—about my ‘ _resting bitchface_ ’.” He rolls his eyes distastefully. “I don’t think you get to suddenly go the opposite direction.”

 

“A little lesson in love, big bro: If someone makes you go from being all scowly half the time to smiling like a dork, then you probably have feelings for ‘em. Just saying.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek huffs. “I’m not taking advantage of him like that.”

 

Cora looks delighted for a moment at the sort-of admission, but then she frowns.

 

“Taking advantage of him like _what_?”

 

“By making a move. I’m not going to do that to him.”

 

Cora looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

 

“I’m not quite seeing what you’re doing to him, here. Care to explain your super emo, woe-is-me thought process?”

 

Derek frowns even harder, probably proving her point but not particularly caring.

 

“He spent two months having to bend to the will of an entire pack of alphas. Now he’s finally healing, and he’s in a fragile state, and I’m not taking advantage of him by being yet another alpha who forces him to do things he doesn’t want to do.”

 

“What the actual fuck does that mean?”

 

“Don’t be purposely obtuse,” Derek grumbles. “You know exactly what I mean.”

 

“No, I really, really don’t. And he’d probably kick your ass if he heard you call him _fragile_. They were forcing him to live in captivity. You’re going to be asking him on a date. I’m failing to see the resemblance.”

 

“I’m not going to be asking him to do anything,” Derek says, pausing for a moment to check that Stiles’ heartbeat is still coming from upstairs. “I mean that he’s afraid of alphas now, which I _am_ , and I don’t want him to feel like he has to do anything he doesn’t want to just because I ask him. And I don’t want him saying yes because he feels like he owes me something for letting him live here or protecting him or something stupid like that, either.”

 

“Oh, please,” Cora says, snorting derisively. “Do I really need to tell you that he likes you, too? Don’t tell me your nose has stopped working. And your _eyes_? Those stupid little looks go both ways, you know. I think "forcing" would be the last word he’d use if you nerds ended up together. And scared of you? Alphas, sure, your alpha side, maybe, but _you_? He’s not scared of you, Derek. He’s been getting blatantly more comfortable around you for a while now, and I don’t know who would start going out with someone just because they didn’t throw them into the streets to get mauled by alphas, okay? So chill.”

 

“Well I don’t need him being scared of one side of me, either,” Derek says. “They’re inseparable parts of me, and that can’t be good for him, or for a relationship.”

 

“And the fact that he’s clearly into you?” Cora asks, not letting that slide like he’d hoped.

 

She and Erica are going to be the death of him, he swears. 

 

Derek takes an overly-large bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing slowly before answering in a low voice.

 

“It’s aesthetic attraction, if anything.”

 

“Ooh, well someone thinks he’s hot stuff,” Cora croons.

 

“ _Cora_.”

 

“ _Derek_.”

 

No matter how old they get, she’ll always be his annoying little sister.

 

“You know what I mean."

 

“Yes, I believe you just called yourself hot.”

 

And, yeah, she’s going to make him say it.

 

“Conventionally attractive,” he mutters. “But that doesn’t _matter_. I don’t want someone who only likes me for how I look,” because that’s all so many people have seen him as, a good-looking, tragic, powerful figure, and he hates it, “or I’d pick someone up at a bar. And have you seen Stiles? Even with all the-” he falters, not wanting to offend him, even when he’s not around, “the injuries, he’s still really good-looking. It’s not like he can’t have anyone he wants, anyway, so-”

 

“Oh my God, Derek, will you shut up for a second and listen to yourself? Actually, no, don’t do that. You’re ridiculous. Listen to me,” she says, tone finally serious. “You’re not taking advantage of him. He’s not too scared of you to say no. He’s not scared of you, period. He’s scared of the fact that you have claws in the same way you might be scared of a dude who carries a pocket knife around at all times, but that’s it, okay? He knows you’d never hurt him. He knows you’re not like the alphas. And hell, Derek, his _best friend_ is a werewolf. And he’s not going to agree to go out with you just because he feels like he owes you something, because he has _common sense_. And if he only likes you because you’re—ew, gag, gross, thanks for making me say it about my brother—good-looking, or _whatever_ , then someone should fill him in on the art of ogling someone, as opposed to staring at them like the sun shines out of their ass, okay? Do you not see the way he looks right at you when he makes a joke, or when he gets all passionate about something he’s saying, like he wants your approval? I don’t even think he knows he does it, because you’re a couple of giant dorks. But look. Either he likes you, which he probably _does_ , or he doesn’t, and the worst he does is turn you down. It’s not gonna be the end of the world.”

 

Before Derek can even begin to formulate a response, Isaac pokes his head into the room, and says, “Hey, pack meeting in fifteen? Peter wants to catch some TV later, and I was planning to go for a run.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Derek sighs. Somehow the meeting has become the least stressful thing in his life. “Tell everyone to meet in the living room at 5:30.”

 

* * *

 

“You did _not_ actually bring out a white board for this,” Erica says. She’s sitting on the couch with Boyd and Cora, while Isaac’s on the floor by her feet next to Stiles, who’d adamantly refused to let one of them give up their spot, and Peter’s in the arm chair. Derek’s got a white board propped up in front of the TV, with a crudely drawn sketch of the basement. “Where’d you even find that thing?”

 

“Shut up,” Derek mutters. “It was up in the attic.”

 

Stiles didn’t even know they _had_ an attic.

 

“Oh, please,” Peter says. “Let him draw his little diagrams. Whatever gets this over with by the time the six o’clock news is on.”

 

As per usual, he’s feigning a certain level of disinterest, but Stiles had seen how worried he was last night, and he’s not forgetting any time soon how Peter immediately agreed to risk his life along with Derek for the sake of the pack. There’s an actual soul in there somewhere, under all the sass and sardonicism. Besides, if he’s honest, he’s glad the mood isn’t too heavy while they’re discussing this. He doesn’t think he could handle everyone getting all dreary over his hypothetical impending death.

 

“C’mon,” Boyd cuts in. “What’s your plan, Derek?”

 

Derek huffs, and Stiles finds his exasperation kind of adorable.

 

“The first thing any of you are going to do if we see another sign of danger is call the Argents, while getting somewhere safe as fast as you can. Right now, that means the tunnels in the basement. Depending on the details, that either means staying in one of the tunnels,” _there’s more than one?_ “till we have more information or until we have a reason to need to leave the house. If staying in the house seems unsafe, obviously we’ll exit through the opposite end. Still, I want everyone to stay in the tunnel with the door locked until we’re given a reason to move. No sense leaving a safe place that they don’t even know exists unless we really need to.”

 

Next to Stiles, Isaac has tensed. His hand, which is resting on his knee, twitches a few times like he’s considering raising it. Stiles is about to ask if he’s alright when Isaac finally lifts it a few inches off his leg, fingers crooked, and catches Derek’s attention.

 

Derek frowns a little, like he knows what’s coming, and Stiles wonders what he’s missing here.

 

“Uh, the tunnels,” Isaac says, eyes flicking between Derek and the floor as he talks. Stiles doesn’t want to stare, but he’s pretty sure Isaac’s pale cheeks have flushed pink. “I don’t... I mean… How long-” his voice catches, “do, uh, you think…?”

 

Derek seems to understand the bitten off questions, and he sighs.

 

“I don’t know, Isaac. I’m sorry. They’re not… _that_ small, if you think about it." Derek winces even as he says it. "And there’s really a way out on both ends,” he offers weakly. “They aren’t completely enclosed.”

 

And oh. Stiles suddenly remembers what Isaac said when Cora tried to leave him to take care of Stiles last night, his little, “ _Small spaces_ ,” and Erica offering to stay back instead, even if it meant leaving Boyd, and then he gets it. Isaac is claustrophobic. Well, shit.

 

Stiles has been meaning to ask the reason for the tunnels in the first place, but now's probably not a good time. 

 

“What about the attic?” he pipes up. “Couldn’t you, like, leap off the roof and into a tree or something?”

 

He’s aware it sounds like a silly suggestion, but it should be more than possible for a werewolf.

 

“I thought about that,” Derek sighs. “If we need to leave the house immediately, we won’t even bother with the basement, we’ll just head into the woods from the front or back doors. But if we’re undetected and we’re safest hiding, then the attic isn’t a good place for it. _We_ could jump off the roof, but _you_ can’t, and I don’t like the idea of splitting up, or sending Isaac off by himself. Besides, anyone could land wrong, and an emergency isn’t a good time to be setting a broken leg.”

 

“I doubt it’s gonna come to that, anyway,” Boyd says, voice calm and steady. “This whole thing can’t last much longer.”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says softly. He’s looking determinedly away from the rest of them now, and Stiles is hit with a hard bout of guilt for being the reason Isaac has to deal with this in his own home. “What’s the rest of the plan?”

 

Derek looks pained, like he wants to reassure Isaac somehow, but he eventually settles for leaving it alone.

 

“Everyone’s going to carry their phone with them at all times from now on. I don’t want anyone ever being caught in a situation where they can’t at least try to call for help. I’m also going to be calling someone in to set up security cameras around the outside of the house, and spread out through the preserve. It’s better to be safe than sorry, and I’d like to be able to see what’s coming at us next time. So we don’t _have_ a next time.”  

 

* * *

 

The next few hours go by surprisingly fast, different pack members weaving in and out of the room periodically, everyone going for dinner at some point, and then back to the living room. By eleven, Stiles, Isaac, and Derek are the only ones left, everyone else having gone off to bed. At 11:30, Isaac decides to go that route himself, patting both of them on the knee once as he worms his way out from between them. Somehow, they’d all ended up squished together in the middle of the couch. He looks perfectly calm now, and has for hours, but Stiles is sure he’s still worried on some level about this whole thing. When he stands, the space he leaves is very noticeable, and once he bids them goodnight, so is the silence.

 

Finally, when it starts to stretch too long, Stiles turns to face Derek and breaks it.

 

“You think he’s okay? From before? I figured he must be claustrophobic, right?”

 

He doesn’t know why his voice comes out so low and soft, but Derek answers in a whisper too, and it feels right, talking quietly together in the dark living room, lit only by the dim light of the TV and the moon.

 

“Yeah, but he’ll… he’ll be alright. He’s always been brave, even when it’s hard. And hopefully it doesn’t come down to that, anyway.” Derek shakes his head a little, frowning. “I don’t know what to do. I want everyone to be safe, and to _feel_ safe, but I just… I don’t know. I can’t take care of everyone. I’m trying, but,” he shrugs, “I’m not the best alpha.”

 

Then he looks away, like maybe he hadn’t meant to share all that, and Stiles, on impulse, brushes his fingers against Derek’s jaw for a second. It makes him look back up with wide eyes, and Stiles quickly retracts his hand, feeling a little silly.

 

“Sorry, I uh… whatever. Yeah. But nah, dude, listen. You're trying. I know it’s a shitty situation, and you can’t make it perfect for everyone, because it’s just, y’know, shitty. But you’re doing the best you can. And I definitely think you’re a good alpha, if it means anything. Like, the way you care so much for your pack? It’s really great to watch.”

 

Derek doesn’t answer right away, so Stiles plows on, voice just as quiet.

 

“And listen, man. I just- I’ve been meaning to say for a while how sorry I am for all of this. That I brought all this on your pack. If I had any say in the matter, I wouldn’t want anyone at all to be involved. It’s not your problem, but you took me in, and now it’s…” He pauses, mouth dry. “I dunno. It’s affecting your pack, and then like, there’s shit like last night, and- I didn’t get to properly thank you for that, either.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Derek says. “None of this is your fault. It’s out of all of our control. You don’t have to apologize, or thank me.”

 

“I don’t have to,” Stiles agrees. “But you deserve it. You’re a really great guy.”

 

He’s scared of how intimate this whole thing feels, sitting here, this close to Derek and saying these things, but knowing Derek doesn’t _get_ it. How much Stiles appreciates him, how much he likes him. How he’s somehow gone from being petrified of him, to crushing, to being completely taken, in a matter of weeks spent around each other so often. How much he wants to kiss him, right here, right now, with the moonlight filtering in through the trees. Not as a thank you, or because he’s a good alpha. Just because he’s Derek.

 

Derek shrugs noncommittally, frowning. He looks a little uncomfortable, more so than he would just from Stiles complimenting him, but Stiles can’t quite pinpoint where it’s stemming from.

 

“I mean it,” Stiles says, more firmly this time. He doesn’t like to see Derek frown. “You’re a really good person, Derek. To your whole pack. And, uh. To me.”

 

He knows he’s stumbling over his words now, unsure of what to say or of when, exactly, he and Derek ended up sitting so close. And Derek’s being so quiet, has this look on his face like, like-

 

Suddenly there are lips on Stiles’, soft and warm and right, stubble tickling the sensitive skin near his lips, and he can’t see the look on Derek’s face anymore, because his eyes have blissfully closed.

 

Only moments after it starts, though, it stops, Derek pulling away, and those beautiful green eyes, with their little brown and gold flecks that Stiles has never appreciated quite enough, are worriedly searching his own.

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, voice pitched low and surprisingly hoarse. “I shouldn’t- that wasn’t- was that-”

 

Before he can work himself up over nothing, Stiles leans back in, bridging the gap between them, moving a hand to cup Derek’s face as he kisses him. It’s tentative and gentle and new, but better than Stiles ever imagined.

 

“It was good,” he says, stroking his thumb across Derek’s cheek till he gives a tiny, hesitant, _adorable_ smile. “It was perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAYYYY! The only person more hesitant about making a move on Stiles than Derek is _me_. But, voila, 87,000 words in, here we have it! I'd really like to thank you guys for being so incredibly patient with this, but I think they're finally in a good place for a relationship, and I hope you do too. I believe this was the longest chapter to date; there were important snatches on info here and there and a lot went on--besides, of course, that ending lol--so I'd really love to hear what you thought! Again, thanks for the patience, love you guys and I hope you enjoyed!  <3


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! How long's it been? ;) (Too long. Far too long. I apologize, but I won't bore you with the horrible, awful details of the stress that kept me from updating. If you follow me on tumblr, you've seen plenty of it anyway.) Enjoy!

**Stiles Stilinski [11:42 PM]**

_HOLY SHIT_

_*IN A GOOD WAY_

_DON’T FREAK OUT_

_WELL DO FREAK OUT_

_WITH ME_

_IN A GOOD WAY_

_BECAUSE HOLY_

_MOTHERFUCKING_

_SHIT_

_SCOTT_

_SCOTT MCCALL_

_IF YOU DON’T ANSWER YOUR PHONE I SWEAR TO GOD_

_SCOTT_

_I WILL TRIPLE TEXT, EXCEPT, LIKE, WHATEVER THE WORD FOR FIFTY TEXTS IT_

_DON’T TEST ME_

**Scott McCall [11:47 PM]**

_!!!_

_I WAS IN THE BATHROOM_

_WHAT’S GOING ON_

_WHY ARE WE YELLING_

**Stiles Stilinski [11:47 PM]**

_OOPS_

_BUT WE ARE NOT YELLING_

_WE ARE MOTHERFUCKING SCREAMING_

_BECAUSE DEREK AND I JUST KISSED_

_TWICE_

_LIKE HE KISSED ME AND I KISSED HIM_

**Scott McCall [11:47 PM]**

_BRO_

**Stiles Stilinski [11:48 PM]**

_I KNOW_

_LIKE. THAT IS A THING. THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. IN REAL LIFE._

**Scott McCall [11:48 PM]**

_That’s so great dude!! :D_

**Stiles Stilinski [11:48 PM]**

_I knowww_

_Oh my god_

_About time something in life swung my way, huh?_

**Scott McCall [11:48 PM]**

_Good thing /Derek/ swings your way:P_

_Seriously tho dude, that’s really awesome, I’m smiling for you over here_

**Stiles Stilinski [11:49 PM]**

_WAY TOO CORNY_

_But yeah, thanks man_

_This is great_

_Anyway_

_I just wanted to let you know what kinda yelling you’re in for tomorrow_

_But I know you have to get to work early tomorrow, and I have to go have some great dreams about Derek, sooooo_

_I’ll letcha go for now_

_Goodnight man_

**Scott McCall [11:51 PM]**

_TMI dude_

_But alright, good night, sweet dreams_

_But not TOO sweet ;)_

* * *

 

“You’re acting weird,” Isaac declares around a mouthful of waffles. “I can’t tell what it is, but something is definitely off.”

 

“Just tired,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

He’s sitting at the breakfast table with him and Boyd, who chimes in, “Nah, that’s not it. Something’s different.”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees slowly. “He looks almost… happy?”

 

“Haha,” Derek says flatly, because _really_ , didn’t they get over the Derek-never-smiles jokes years ago? “Very funny.”

 

“No, but seriously,” Isaac says. “Tell us what’s going on. Otherwise I’ll have to _guess_.”

 

“You know you don’t want him guessing,” Boyd warns.

 

Derek gets up to put his cereal bowl in the sink, then leans against the counter, shaking his head in exasperation.

 

“Did you chase some nice woodland creatures on your run this morning?” Isaac asks.

 

Derek gives him a _look_.

 

“Did youuuuu… look in the mirror and remember how absolutely _lovely_ your eyes are?”

 

Boyd snorts. Derek rolls his _lovely_ eyes.

 

“Did you make some progress with Stiles?”

 

 _You could say that_ , Derek thinks, although of course Isaac means the case.

 

“If there was something new with the alphas, I’d tell you,” he says instead.

 

Isaac waves him off.

 

“Dude, just tell us,” Isaac says. “What’s the big deal?”

 

“What’s the big deal, indeed?” Peter says, walking into the kitchen and settling down at the table. “I could hear you three gossiping from the living room.”

 

“Derek won’t tell us what he looks so happy about,” Isaac informs him. Derek’s glad to see the pack interacting so much easier with Peter lately, but it doesn’t have to be about _him_. “He keeps making these stupid little happy faces when he thinks no one is looking, and he smells way happier than anyone ever should before 10am.”

 

“Hmm,” Peter says, pouring some coffee into a stray mug. “You two aren’t particularly good at deductive reasoning, are you?”

 

“Dude, it’s about five hours too early for _deductive reasoning_ ,” Isaac says. “Amazingly, it’s not a popular breakfast activity.”

 

Peter huffs.

 

“I have to do everything myself,” he says, sounding utterly put-upon. “Well, I was the first one upstairs last night. Cora followed me up not long after. You and Erica,” he says, looking at Boyd, “came up around eleven. I recall because the creaking of your bed distracted me from my reading.” He looks very smug, and Boyd stares determinedly into his cereal. “Then Isaac came up, say, half an hour later. Did Derek seem to be in a particularly good mood when you left, Isaac?”   

 

“Uh… no?” Isaac says, looking a little bemused. “Just normal, I guess.”

 

“I should probably take the garbage out,” Derek says, futile as he’s sure it’ll be.

 

“Oh, but we’re just getting to the good part,” Peter says, smiling broadly. “Stay a while, nephew.”

 

“Yeah, Der,” Boyd says, apparently glad the spotlight of embarrassment is off of him and onto Derek. “ _Stay a while_.”

 

Derek groans.

 

“So,” Peter continues, when Derek doesn’t make a move to leave. “Basic logic would tell us that, seeing as there was no noise till I fell asleep, Derek was down here with Stiles for an indeterminable amount of time. Alone. In the dark. _If_ you know what I mean.”

 

Boyd and Isaac both turn to Derek, eyebrows raised comically high.

 

“You _didn’t_ ,” Boyd says.

 

Derek sighs, closing his eyes for a moment.

 

“He so did,” Isaac says, voice practically an awed whisper. “Dude, you _so did!”_

 

“It was just kissing,” Derek says. “Not a big deal.”

 

“You _kissed_ him?” Isaac demands, apparently strongly disagreeing with that particular sentiment.

 

“He kissed me, actually,” Derek says. “Then I kissed him.”

 

He’s going to kill Peter.

 

“ _Bro_.”

 

Isaac slides out a hand and Boyd high fives it, grinning.

 

“And what about everyone’s favorite uncle?” Peter asks, holding up both hands.

 

Isaac snorts, but he and Boyd both high five Peter too, which Derek would normally be amused at, if he didn’t know the shit they were going to give him for this.

 

“So how did it happen?” Isaac asks. “Cause we’ve all been waiting for like-”

 

He’s cut off by Erica’s shriek of, “He _what!_?” from upstairs.

 

“Sorry,” Boyd says, not looking sorry at all as he lifts his phone above the table. “Someone had to tell her.”

 

In less than thirty seconds she’s in the kitchen, dragging Cora by the arm and absolutely beaming.

 

Derek’s sure he’s in for a long morning.

 

* * *

 

**Scott McCall [1:56 PM]**

_What do you mean you haven’t left your room yet?_

_Stiles it’s like two o’clock_

**Stiles Stilinski [1:56 PM]**

_I am supremely aware of that, thank you_

**Scott McCall [1:56 PM]**

_Like. I’m almost off shift at work. And you haven’t left your room._

**Stiles Stilinski [1:56 PM]**

_I AM SUPREMELY AWARE OF THAT, THANK YOU_

**Scott McCall [1:57 PM]**

_Shouldn’t you get on top of that…?_

**Stiles Stilinski [1:57 PM]**

_If I had balls_

_Which I do not_

_So I’m just gonna stay here curled in a ball, without my balls, and hope everyone forgets my existence_

**Scott McCall [1:57 PM]**

_Sounds like a very solid plan_

**Stiles Stilinski [1:57 PM]**

_You don’t understand, dude_

_Me and Derek KISSED_

**Scott McCall [1:58 PM]**

_Were we not celebrating that last night?_

**Stiles Stilinski [1:58 PM]**

_Yes, but that was /stupid/_

_He probably just kissed me because I was being really nice about his alphahood and there was romantic lighting_

**Scott McCall [1:59 PM]**

_I have never once kissed someone for complimenting my wolfy abilities in good lighting_

**Stiles Stilinski [2:01 PM]**

_Shut up_

_You know what I mean_

_Have you SEEN Derek?_

_And have you SEEN me?_

_Why the actual fuck would he want to kiss me_

_Or even kissing is cool! Good! Fine! But like. Going any further? A relationship??? Nah. Nope. It was probably just a spur of the moment thing. He’s probably downstairs with his pack conspiring about ways to politely eject the endangered hostage from his house._

**Scott McCall [2:02 PM]**

_You’re just as good-looking as he is_

_And don’t you think you might be exaggerating there?_

_Just a tiny bit_

_Perhaps_

**Stiles Stilinski [2:04 PM]**

_Okay…_

  1. _A) that’s not even true under normal circumstances, let alone when I’m all beaten up and scarred and gross like this_
  2. _B) /perhaps./ But still. What am I supposed to say? “Oh hey, hi, howdy, fancy running into you in your own home on this fine afternoon, huh? Remember last night? When we kissed? Right on that very couch? Gee golly that was exciting. Up for round two?”_



**Scott McCall [2:05 PM]**

  1. _A) don’t say bad things about my best friend_
  2. _B) I vote for using those exact words, and if possible, recording it for me_



**Stiles Stilinski [2:05 PM]**

_Ha. Ha. Ha._

**Scott McCall [2:06 PM]**

_Listen dude, it’s only gonna get weirder the longer you don’t show up. Eventually someone’s gonna come check on you. You wanna talk to him yourself, or get cornered in your own room?_

**Stiles Stilinski [2:06 PM]**

_…_

_I hate when you’re right_

**Scott McCall [2:06 PM]**

_:P_

**Stiles Stilinski [2:06 PM]**

_Good thing it doesn’t happen too often_

**Scott McCall [2:07 PM]**

_Thanks, bud. Love you too._

_Now go get him!!! Tell me if he’s a jerk. I’ll fight him for you._

**Stiles Stilinski [2:07 PM]**

_And that’s why I love you_

_Talk to you later_

 

* * *

 

Derek is starting to get nervous.

 

When Stiles didn’t come down for breakfast, he was mostly just grateful that he wasn’t up to hear the betas freak out, but when he missed lunch… Well.

 

The pack has been offering all kinds of excuses about why Stiles might not have come downstairs yet, and they’re all reasonable. They really are. Except, of course, that doesn’t stop Derek from worrying if there’s some better—well, worse—reason.

 

Erica volunteered to go up and check on him, after swearing up and down she would act like she didn’t know anything about the kissing, and Derek is seriously starting to consider taking her up on it when they finally hear Stiles’ door open.

 

“Act natural,” he orders, in as threatening a voice as he can manage under his breath.

 

He’s aware it probably sounds silly, like something a fourteen-year-old girl would tell her friends when her crush walks by, but. Shut up.

 

“Hey, guys,” Stiles says, when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “What’s up?”

 

The whole pack is spread around the living room, and Stiles leans against the far wall.

 

“TV,” Cora says, lifting the remote. “What’ve you been up to?”

 

“My back was hurting a little,” Stiles says. “Figured a few extra hours in bed could do me some good.”

 

“And did they?”

 

“Nah,” Stiles grumbles, hand going back to brush over the small of his back. “The painkillers didn’t really do much either. Couldn’t stay in bed all day, though. You could go crazy cooped up in one room too long. Besides, I’m starving.”

 

“I picked up a few sandwiches at Starbucks this morning, there’s one in the fridge if you want,” Erica offers. “No tomato, like you like it.”

 

“Oh, you’re the best!” Stiles says, smiling. “See you guys.”

 

With that, he heads down the hall towards the kitchen.

 

Once he’s out of earshot, Cora and Erica shove at Derek from opposite sides.

 

“Go talk to him!” Erica says. “I didn’t buy you some alone time for nothing.”

 

“What am I supposed to talk to him about?” Derek demands. “I already ate lunch. And I have no idea what to say to him.”

 

“You don’t have to say anything if you push him up against the fridge and kiss him,” she points out.

 

“I’m sure his sore back would appreciate that,” Isaac says.

 

“I’m sure his lips will forgive him.”

 

“Oh, God,” Derek says, standing. “ _Please_ shut up.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey.”

 

Stiles almost jumps out of his skin at Derek’s voice behind him. He slams the fridge a little too hard as he turns around, and leans back against it, hands behind his back, looking at Derek in the doorway.

 

For some reason, Derek’s ears start to pink.

 

“Oh, uh, hey, man,” Stiles says. His voice is a little higher than he’d like to admit. “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek says. “I just wanted to get something to drink.”

 

“Oh. Um, cool.” They stare at each other for a long moment before Stiles realizes he’s still leaning against the refrigerator. “Oh! Right. You, um- Drink. In the fridge. My bad.”

 

He quickly walks over to the table, sitting down in a chair and opening the container with his sandwich in it. Derek rummages around in the fridge for a painfully long amount of time before he pulls out the jug of lemonade and pours himself a glass. When he turns back around, he glances between the door and Stiles at least five times before Stiles says, “Hey, um. You wanna sit?”

 

Before Derek can work himself up over picking a chair, Stiles pulls out the one next to himself, and Derek settles down into it. On one hand, Stiles supposes he should be grateful he’s not the only one feeling awkward here. On the other, Derek could be feeling uncomfortable for a totally different reason than him. While Stiles is sitting here trying to figure out how to move forward, Derek might be trying to figure out how to put a stop to things.

 

Stiles is grateful for the panini, so at least he has something to occupy his mouth with, and Derek seems to be feeling the same way about his lemonade if the long, slow drags he’s taking are anything to go by.

 

“I could help, if you want,” Derek says after a long while.

 

Stiles startles a little, and chokes on his stupid sandwich. Derek moves forward but tenses, not leaning back till Stiles waves him off, clearing his throat viciously.

 

“Help what?” Stiles asks, when he gets his voice back. At the very least, it’s not overly-high anymore.

 

“With the back pain,” Derek clarifies. “If you give me your hand, I can take some pain.”

 

Truth be told, Stiles’ back doesn’t hurt drastically more than usual, but it does hurt to a degree, and he’s not exactly in any position to pass up holding Derek’s hand.

 

No matter how pathetic the circumstances make him.

 

“Right,” Stiles says. “Right, yeah. Um. Sure. Thanks.”

 

Derek holds out a hand, palm up, and Stiles hesitantly slides one of his own into it. Derek squeezes, just a little, and black lines start to trace up his arm.

 

They sit in something of a weighted silence for a while, Stiles finishing off his sandwich with his free hand. When he’s done, he leans back in his chair, and Derek does the same, catching his eye.

 

When he finally opens his mouth to speak again, the last thing Stiles expects him to say is, “It’s a shame about that dead puppy.”

 

Stiles blinks at him, caught off guard and a little horrified.

 

“ _What_?”

 

“The uh…” Derek says, scratching at the back of his neck. “The puppy? You… The first time I did this. You said it felt so good that- the pain drain, that is,” he amends, the blush on his ears flaring back up, “that a puppy probably has to be sacrificed by dark magic for it to work.”

 

Stiles laughs, somewhere between relieved, incredulous, and a little touched that Derek remembered his stupid, delirious rambling.

 

“Oh my God, you scared me for a second there, dude,” he says. “But hey, you’re right, I did say that.”

 

“Still worth it, this time?”

 

And, well. They can either sit here, dancing around the subject for who knows how long and keeping their mouths shut, or Stiles can make a move.

 

Stiles has never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.

 

“You kidding? I get to have my pain taken away _and_ I get to hold your hand? That puppy never stood a chance.”

 

Did he mention he was never very good at making moves, either?

 

Derek ducks his head, and honestly, the words _alpha werewolf_ and _flustered_ haven’t occurred to Stiles much in the same sentence over the past few months, but here Derek is.

 

Stiles is considering taking it back, laughing it off since Derek clearly has no idea how to respond, but thankfully he doesn’t need to.

 

“A puppy doesn’t have to die for you to hold my hand,” Derek says finally. “You can always, uh, hold it.”

 

It’s not the smoothest, not by a longshot, but it’s something.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles says, licking his lips. “You can hold mine too.”

 

“I plan on it.”

 

A small grin takes over Derek’s face.

 

“I plan on a lot more than that,” Stiles says, winking.

 

Fuck it if it’s forward; he spent two months in captivity, and what’s life without a little risk?

 

Derek laughs, looking a lot more confident as his smile broadens. Stiles is struck once again by how attractive he is. And, frankly, it’s not fair, considering the levels of adorableness he can also reach.

 

 “Sounds like a plan to me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was worth the wait! Thank you guys for sticking with me, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! <3
> 
> I have plans of my own for the two of them (*wink wink*), but if you have something sterek-y--and realistic for this 'verse--you'd like to see, I'm open to ideas, fluff or otherwise. You guys deserve a treat after that wait, and for how close this is to 2.5k kudos! :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember when I said I was hoping to finish this fic by the end of this summer? Well somehow summer is ending in two days (excuse me while I sob), and clearly this is not done. The new goal is sometime before 2017. And here’s a big thank you to you guys for sticking with me for so long :* Also, shoutout to the two people who left me comments this morning and inspired me to finally finish this chapter, and to the person who suggested they go on a picnic as a first date ;)

“So where are you actually going to go on a date?” Erica asks.

 

They’re out on the porch, and Derek is putting up tape so he can repaint the door. The paint’s been chipping for a while, and despite Isaac’s repeated promises to take care of it, it’s still wasting away.

 

“No idea,” Derek says. “Going out somewhere is going to be a huge pain.”

 

“Yeah, there’s going to be a million people crowding around, dying to see your new beau,” she laughs. “You’ll be lucky if the local news doesn’t show up.”

 

“Don’t even _say_ that. And anyway, that’s not my biggest concern. Not that I think they’re going to snag us in the middle of a coffee shop, but I still don’t like the idea of Stiles being out and about too much with the alphas on the loose.”

 

“Any news on that lately?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek sighs. “Absolutely nothing. It’s like they went off the map. I want to talk to Boyd about it soon, actually.”

 

“Hey, just cause he’s your future second doesn’t mean you can’t talk to _me_. Whatcha thinking?”

 

“I don’t want to burden you guys with it if I don’t need to,” Derek admits. “But I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s weird that they haven’t so much as shown their faces in all this time?”

 

“I guess,” Erica says. “But I wouldn’t exactly be too keen on showing my face on an angry alpha’s property either, especially with two renowned hunters on my tail. No pun intended.”

 

“Two renowned hunters who haven’t come up with _anything_ ,” Derek points out. “I’m saying maybe the alphas just gave up. I know we wanted to keep Stiles here for a while until we knew he was safe, but we can’t keep him here _forever_. He has a family, and a job, and a life. How often do you really hear about someone getting rekidnapped by the same people?”

 

“No idea. But that might be because the kidnappee doesn’t usually get free in the first place unless the ‘napper is actually caught. Hold on, I’ll text your wise old second. Maybe he _is_ better at this.”

 

While they wait for Boyd, Derek dips his brush and starts painting the top of the door. After a few minutes, Boyd comes around from the other side of the house, holding a hunk of tangled metal.

 

“What’s that?” Derek asks, as Boyd takes a seat next to Erica on the porch swing.

 

“Puzzle,” Boyd hums, pulling lightly at two of the twisted up pieces. “Peter lent it to me.”

 

Derek recognizes it, then. One of those little intelligence tests. Peter used to collect them when he was a teenager, the one nerdy habit he wasn’t too cool to show off in public. As far as Derek knows, they were all lost in the fire. He’s sort of pleased to see Peter has taken up the hobby again.

 

“Nerd,” Erica teases, poking him in the side fondly. “So what do you think about my text?”

 

Derek’s not sure if the intense face Boyd is wearing is because of the toy he’s still twisting and tugging at, but he turns back to the door while Boyd apparently ponders.

 

“I think we don’t know all the details,” Boyd says finally. “I think you know more about this than I do, and Stiles’ family knows more than you, and Stiles knows more than them, and the alphas know more than all of us combined. I don’t think five alphas get together, form a pack, wipe their identities off the map, travel across the country, kidnap the son of a middle class sheriff, travel back across the country, and torture him for two months straight without killing him, then try transporting him again just for kicks. And I don’t think they’d be satisfied with him just slipping away from them, either.”

 

Derek can feel eyes boring into his back.

 

“Just something to think about,” Boyd adds.

 

The soft clinking of metal picks up again.

 

“I think that’s a good point,” Erica eventually pipes up. “They’ve been gone now about as long as he was with them, but still. They kind of threw their whole lives away on this. Unless they’ve moved onto another victim or something, I don’t think we should let our guard down just yet.”

 

“I think you’re right,” Derek says slowly. “But I also think that it’s not fair to keep Stiles here indefinitely.”

 

“He can leave if he wants,” Boyd says simply. “There’s no law to keep him here.’

 

“No, but… For his safety, I mean. It’d be good to have him stay.”

 

“Sure,” Boyd says. “But he could go home. Set up mountain ash around his house. His dad’s a sheriff. His best friend’s a werewolf. Best friend’s mom is a nurse. Pretty good people to have around at a time like this.”

 

“I guess so.”

 

Silence reigns again.

 

“You want him to stay,” Boyd says after a while. It’s not a question. “But you also think it’s not right of us to keep him here. And you feel like maybe you’re inclined to get him to stay here as long as possible because you like him. And so you feel bad, like maybe we should let him go. You’re second-guessing yourself, saying maybe the alphas won’t ever come back, saying you’re being selfish. You know they might, but you also know they very well may not. And you feel like you’re keeping him from his family if they don’t, and putting him in danger if they do. Yeah?”

 

Derek heaves a sigh.

 

“Yeah,” he says, at a loss.

 

“Yeah,” Boyd murmurs. The metal clinks extra hard, and he makes a small triumphant noise. Derek suppresses a smirk. “Well I don’t think you’re being selfish. I think he should be the one to decide when it’s safe to leave, and you’d only be selfish if you tried to purposely scare him into staying. If you think it’s safer for him to stay, and he does too—and he _does_ , because he’s an adult who makes his own decisions, and he hasn’t tried to leave—then I don’t think it’s a problem. You’re not keeping him from seeing his family. You invited them here the first time you spoke to them, and Stiles wanted them to stay away. I don’t know why that is, but that’s not your fault. I think you should enjoy the relationship while it lasts, and that as long as you’re not letting your feelings get in the way of his wellbeing, then you have nothing to worry about.”

 

“That’s fair,” Erica says. “I think as long as he’s willing to stay, you should keep him safe and try to make the best of the situation. Worry about where you can safely go on dates, not why he doesn’t want his family to visit. There’s only so many problems you can handle.”

 

Derek knows, of course, that Morrell told Stiles’ friends and family to stay in New York to keep them safe, but he keeps his promise to stay quiet about it.

 

“On a lighter note, I think a picnic in the preserve would be nice,” Boyd continues. “That’s what Erica and I did for our first date.”

 

“Oh, that was sweet,” Erica coos. “I loved that.”

 

“Do we even have stuff for that?” Derek asks. “A basket and a blanket and all that?”

 

“No,” Boyd deadpans. “I made Erica carry all the food through the woods in her arms, and we sat on ragged towels.”

 

Erica laughs, and Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“Stuff’s in the attic,” Erica tells him. “And we can keep him away from the kitchen while you prepare lunch.”

 

“Yeah,” Boyd says easily. “And I think it’d be good for you, too. You need a break from worrying about all of this.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you trying to get me to sprain my other ankle?” Stiles complains. “One was enough, thank you.”

 

“You whine a lot,” Erica says lightly. “Learn to live a little.”

 

“ _Live_? You’re guiding me through a forest with a blindfold on. I’m like ninety-nine percent sure I’m about to _die_.”

 

“You worry a lot, too,” Isaac comments.

 

“With good reason.”

 

“With no reason. These woods are fenced in, the most dangerous animals living here are deer, and you’ve got the two of us here. Promise we’re not gonna let you step on a stray bear trap.”

 

“Better not,” Stiles grumbles.

 

They walk for another couple of minutes before the ground gets noticeably easier to navigate, and Stiles realizes they must be in a clearing of some sort.

 

“Okay!” Erica says as they come to a stop. “Take off your blindfold on the count of three.”

 

“This is so lame,” Stiles huffs, pretending he’s not kind of excited to see what the surprise is.

 

“One!” she calls. Her voice is distinctly further away. “Two!” And even further.

 

Damn werewolves and their graceful ability to tread lightly.

 

“Is the surprise that you’re going to take off and leave me alone in the preserve? Because I know Allison wanted to try some basic training, but this is _so_ not the way I imagined it.”

 

“Three!” Erica and Isaac yell by way of answer, and then they’re crashing through the trees in the opposite direction, leaving him all alone.

 

“You guys are so immat-” Stiles starts, but trails off when he pulls off the cloth around his eyes, letting it slip through his fingers. “Oh.”

 

Thankfully, Allison isn’t standing two feet in front of his face, wielding a bow and arrow or a set of ring daggers.

 

Instead, there’s a red and white checkered blanket laid out in the middle of the pleasantly sunny clearing, with a picnic basket sitting smack in the center. Next to it sits Derek, wearing the dark green Henley that Stiles had complimented him on a week or two ago. Stiles can’t help the grin that takes over his face, and Derek smiles broadly in return, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly in relief.

 

“This is for me?” Stiles asks.

 

It’s a pretty stupid question, but Derek doesn’t even laugh.

 

“For us,” he says. “I wanted a date where you could feel safe and comfortable.”

 

“Well you outdid yourself,” Stiles says sincerely. “This is awesome.”

 

He walks over to sit across from Derek on the blanket.

 

“I’m glad you like it. Hungry?”

 

“Always hungry,” Stiles laughs.

 

Derek slides the basket closer to himself and starts pulling out plates and utensils. He cracks open a water bottle and two glasses, one of which he fills and hands to Stiles before doing his own. He takes out a container of mac and cheese and dishes it onto two plates.

 

“This looks great,” Stiles says, as Derek moves the basket out from between them. Taking a bite, he adds, “Tastes great, too.”

 

“That’s good,” Derek says, smirking. “Because it came from a box. Cooking isn’t exactly my forte.”

 

Stiles snorts, nudging him with his foot.

 

“Well then I’ll send Kraft my compliments,” he says. “And seriously? You make pretty good pancakes and waffles.”

 

“Breakfast foods are basically all I make from scratch,” Derek says, taking a bite of his food. “But I can obviously do basic cooking like pasta and fries and stuff.”

 

He shrugs.

 

“Not good enough,” Stiles says, pointing his fork at him. “What do you do on Christmas or Thanksgiving?”

 

“Peter cooks,” Derek says simply. “He always liked to.”

 

“He cooks the _whole_ meal?”

 

“He _likes_ to,” Derek insists. “Says the rest of us would just screw it up. It’s better for everyone that way, trust me. You’ve never seen Cora _melt_ Pop-Tarts. Who does Thanksgiving at your house?”

 

Stiles shakes his head at the mental image.

 

“Scott’s mom and I, mostly. Can’t trust my dad in the kitchen, cause the man will dump, like, four pounds of butter on anything he can find. Scott doesn’t cook because despite his wolfy sense of smell, the dude _cannot_ tell when something’s about to burn. He’s a mess. But you. _You_ are not a mess. You can cook to some extent, so you should learn some real cooking.”

 

“You should teach me how to make something, then,” Derek suggests. “That could be fun.”

 

“Yeah? Alright, consider it a date,” Stiles says, winking. “But you’re gonna have to go to the store to pick up the ingredients.”

 

“Sounds like a fair tradeoff to me.”

 

“Awesome,” Stiles says, hiding his excitement at the prospect of a second date by taking a sip of water. “So what’s up?”

 

“I uh… I thought maybe it’d be nice if we treat this as just a regular first date,” Derek says, looking unsure. “I mean, no talking about anything… _unpleasant_ , you know?”

 

Stiles laughs.

 

“Believe me, dude, nothing sounds better than that,” he assures. “Ooh, but you’re probably not going to love my first date small talk. There’s a reason I’m single, you know.”

 

“I wouldn’t see you, of all people, having problems with talking,” Derek teases.

 

“Oh, it’s not that I can’t think of anything to say. Hah, I _wish_. Or all my past dates wish, at least. More like I tend to start rambling and not stop. It’s a battle between looking like an asshole who can only talk about himself, and bringing up ADHD on the first date.”

 

“I like it when you talk,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

“I think you might be the first person besides Scott to ever say that. And even he’s probably lying for my benefit sometimes.”

 

“Well I’m not, so talk. Tell me about yourself.”

 

“See, now _there’s_ a classic small talk line,” Stiles says. “Hmm. Well you already know I work as a librarian to help pay my way through college. I’m thinking of becoming a teacher, maybe for high schoolers. I was also considering becoming a professor, but eh, that’s such a hard job to get, and it can pay shit depending on the school. But we’ll see. Obviously school is not my top priority right now anyway, so. I’ll figure that out when there are less pressing matters. How did you spend your days before I started taking up half your time?”

 

Stiles catches the barest hint of a frown cross Derek’s face at that, but it’s gone quickly.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s like when someone asks you what you did on your summer vacation, but you didn’t really do anything. I don’t have to do a ton of work, really. I give speeches sometimes, organize treaties and alliances with surrounding packs, sometimes pass laws and things. It’s less exciting than you would think. Life’s much more interesting when the pack is home. None of them dorm at college, which is good, because I’d probably go stir crazy living with just Peter all day every day. I love him, he’s family, but… Well, you’ve met him. He’s Peter.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“I dunno, I kinda like the guy. When he’s not looking at me like he wants to eat me alive, he’s got the perfect level of snark and bitterness. A man after my own heart.”

 

“Do I need to worry about leaving you two home alone together?” Derek asks, cocking an eyebrow.

 

“Uhh… _no_ ,” Stiles laughs. “Dude’s great, but he’s like forty.”

 

“He _will_ eat you alive if he hears you say he looks forty," Derek says pointedly. "But that’s good. Imagine the press if my uncle stole my boyfriend.” As soon as he says it, he clamps his mouth shut, and his ears go pink. “Not that, uh… I know you’re not- I mean, _hypothetically_ , in the future, you- I know it’s only a first date, obviously, and-”

 

“Dude,” Stiles says gently, putting a hand on Derek’s knee. “I gotcha. I’m very happy to be your future, hypothetical, potential, maybe, _perhaps_ boyfriend, alright?”

 

The blush creeps down Derek’s cheeks. 

 

“You don’t have to say that,” he says. “It was just-”

 

“A Freudian slip?” Stiles teases, squeezing Derek’s leg. “For real, Der, it’s fine. I like you, and I certainly can’t object to a sweet, hot, awesome guy accidentally calling me his boyfriend.”

 

Derek ducks his head, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips when he looks back up.

 

It takes a lot of willpower for Stiles not to melt into a pile of goop.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the date goes over well.

 

Derek convinced Peter to make Stiles’ favorite cinnamon rolls—and seriously, this guy _needs_ to learn to cook for himself—and Stiles thinks it’s probably the best first date he’s ever been on.

 

They moved closer together at some point, though Stiles doesn’t quite remember when, and now they’re sitting side by side, looking off into the trees. The conversation is flowing easily, in a way it usually doesn’t for Stiles on dates, and everything is good. Sitting here with Derek in the preserve, the sky a gorgeous pinkish orange color as the sun starts to sink behind the foliage, feels so _right_ , somehow.

 

It feels even better when Derek kisses him with warm, sticky-sweet lips.

 

And if it turns into light Frenching?

 

Well.

 

Derek has icing on his mouth, okay? Can you _blame_ Stiles?

 

He should just be glad Stiles doesn’t start calling him SugarLips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should _also_ be grateful Derek missed out on that nickname. You have no idea what fun I could have with that ;) As always, I really appreciate getting to hear your thoughts, and I hope everyone had a great Labor Day! Also, thank you for getting this over 2500 kudos! (Over 2600, actually :P) I love you guys so, so much  <3


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I have no excuse for the wait except: senior year is _stressful_. But I finished this instead of writing an AP Euro paper, so enjoy ;)

“Okay,” Derek announces. “Everyone out.”

 

“You know, it's really not fair for you to kick us out,” Cora complains, shrugging on a light jacket. “It’s our house too.”

 

“And as soon as a single one of you starts paying rent, you’ll get to stay,” Derek says amiably.  “For now, get out.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Erica chimes in. “I’m taking Boyd clothes shopping. Maybe he’ll actually have more than ten shirts for once.”

 

Boyd mutters something under his breath as he heads out the front door, making her laugh.

 

“Yeah, well _I_ was planning on lazing around all day,” Cora huffs.

 

“Why don’t you come with me, dear niece?” Peter asks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs with a pair of shoes in hand. “I was planning to go see that new Marvel movie, and seeing as you insist I never actually _watch_ movies, maybe you’d like some proof.” He leans against the wall, balancing on one foot to lace his shoes. “Isaac, you’re welcome to tag along too. I’ll treat for dinner.”

 

“I’m never one to turn down free food,” Isaac says, grabbing car keys from the hook by the door. “Particularly when Stiles and Derek are supposedly gonna make some awesome food that none of us are allowed to have.”

 

“It’s a _date_ ,” Derek says. “I don’t need all of you hanging around.”

 

“Yes, yes, we know,” Peter says, smoothly snatching the keys from Isaac. “We’ll be back by eleven, and I expect you kids to be in bed. Separate beds, that is.”

 

Cora makes a gagging sound as she heads out the front door, followed by Erica and Isaac.

 

“See you later, Derek,” Peter says, unlocking the car. “I keep some wine in the cabinet above the fridge, if it’s _that_ kind of date. Remind me, is he old enough to drink?”

 

“He’s twenty-one,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. He puts a hand on Peter’s back and guides him out the door. “And speaking of age, he said you look _forty_ the other day.”

 

He closes the door before Peter can respond, feeling thoroughly satisfied.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles shows up in the kitchen around ten minutes after everyone else has left. He’s not dressed particularly fancy since cooking can get messy, but he’s wearing black jeans and a dark purple V-neck that Scott had shipped over with a box of his clothes and other stuff, and he looks good. Really good. So good, in fact, that Derek finds himself wondering if he should’ve put a little more work into his own appearance.

 

Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, though, if the way he’s smiling when he sweeps into the kitchen is anything to go by.

 

“Get all the ingredients?” he asks, pulling Derek in for a quick hug before stepping back.

 

Derek’s pretty glad he took the initiative, because God, it’s _weird_ living in the same house as someone you just started dating. He really has no idea how to act on dates as opposed to when they see each other the rest of the time. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make things a little awkward, but mostly they’ve been acting normal around each other, with a little extra affection on dates. So far, it’s been good.

 

“Everything you put on the list,” Derek answers. “But they didn’t have any green peppers that looked good, so I got red.”

 

“Same difference,” Stiles says easily. “We don’t have to worry about that yet anyway. These are the ingredients for the dough?”

 

Stiles had decided the first thing he was going to teach Derek how to cook was pizza from scratch, which sounds like a pretty good idea to him.

 

“Yep,” he says. “All I did so far was lay them out.”

 

“Good,” Stiles says. “How about you grease that bowl with the olive oil while I let the yeast dissolve into some water?”

 

They each wash their hands—Stiles flicking Derek with water before drying his—and go about their separate tasks. When Stiles deems the ingredients mixed enough, he pulls Derek over and measures out flour, sugar, salt, and oil for him to add in. He pours in the yeast mixture himself, and turns the food processor on.

 

Once the dough has formed a sticky ball, he has Derek spread some flour to roll the dough out on, and Derek retaliates for earlier by blowing a handful directly at Stiles’ face.

 

“Eugh!” he groans. “Now I look like I have dandruff.”

 

“Then you’re the cutest person with dandruff I know,” Derek says, laying out the dough.

 

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles laughs, shaking his hair out like a dog.

 

He comes up behind Derek, practically pressing their bodies together as he wraps his arms around him to help knead.

 

Derek’s glad Stiles can’t see his face, because he can feel his cheeks burning.

 

Stiles leans forward into Derek every time he presses the dough, and while Derek’s definitely enjoying it, he has a whole new reason to be glad he’s not facing Stiles, because, uh… Well. The dough isn’t the only thing that’s going to rise soon.

 

After a few minutes, Stiles pulls away, gathering up the dough and putting it in the oiled bowl. He presses into it for another fifteen seconds or so, and then wipes his hand on a dish towel.

 

“Well that’s good for now,” he says. “We’ve got about an hour to kill while that doubles in size. Any ideas?”

 

“Maybe a few,” Derek says, because if Stiles is going to be bold, then he can, too. “We’re the only ones home, after all…”

 

He juts his chin in the direction of the living room, and Stiles grins.

 

“Wouldn’t want to waste an opportunity like that,” he says, crossing the kitchen. He tosses the dish towel at Derek and takes a head start to the living room. “Only fifty-nine minutes left.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles has no idea what he’s doing.

 

Like... somehow he’s making moves on a super hot guy… and… it’s working?

 

He’s honestly not going to question it. Especially not while he’s sitting on the couch as he waits nervously for Derek, who shows up a few moments later. If this were a movie, Stiles thinks he would swoon. If Derek looked good before, he looks impossibly better standing in the doorway to the living room, lit only by the dim light from the hall.

 

Stiles is really grateful the Hales have such a big, comfy couch when Derek sits next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

 

“Hey,” Derek says, voice low and gentle.

 

“Hi,” Stiles answers. At a loss, he adds, “You look really great tonight.”

 

“You always look great,” Derek says, pressing a light kiss to his temple.

 

Stiles kisses him on the lips in return, and soon enough he doesn’t have to worry about terrible small talk, because they’re barely pulling away. They rearrange themselves on the couch a little so they’re facing each other better, and Stiles’ legs end up draped over Derek’s lap. Derek runs a hand up and down Stiles’ spine as he licks into his mouth. Eventually Derek pulls away and starts peppering kisses down Stiles’ neck instead, as Stiles digs his fingers into the back of Derek’s shoulders. The light, tickling kisses turn longer, more fervent, until he’s practically sucking hickeys into Stiles’ neck, and all at once, everything feels wrong.

 

Derek’s warm breath, the occasional scrape of teeth, the arms wrapped around him… Suddenly Stiles is pinned against a hard, unforgiving wall, Kali pressed up against him, her fangs brushing his throat. Her breath is hot and menacing. Her teeth are razor sharp. They graze his neck dangerously with every small movement, and it’s _too much._

 

* * *

 

 

“No,” Stiles says suddenly. “No, no, no, no.”

 

“What?” Derek asks, alarmed, pulling back to glance up at him.

 

Instead of answering, Stiles violently yanks himself away, managing to tumble backwards off the couch as Derek watches in abject horror.

 

“No, no, no,” Stiles says, keeping up his litany. “No, I don’t- I don’t want- Please don’t-”

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, stomach sinking. Fuck. Fuck, he’s such an _idiot._ He didn’t mean to come on so strong and creep Stiles out. “We don’t have to, Stiles. It’s okay. I’m so sorry, we don’t have to do _anything_ you don’t want to.”

 

He stands, belatedly realizing how intimidating it probably looks to Stiles, who’s still on the floor.

 

“Don’t want,” Stiles agrees, nodding fervently. “Please no. I’ll be good, I’ll-”

 

And finally, Derek understands the faraway look in his eyes, the smell of fear that’s way stronger than it should be from unwanted advances.

 

Flashback.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says firmly. “It’s me. Derek. Do you know where you are?”

 

He feels kind of silly, but he doesn’t really know how to deal with this.

 

“Please don’t,” Stiles says again, one hand scrabbling at his throat. “I don’t want it.”

 

“Don’t want _what_? Stiles, I’m not doing anything. You’re safe.”

 

“Bite,” Stiles murmurs. “Please, please, please don’t. Don’t want it. D- _don’t.”_

“Stiles,” Derek says firmly. He hopes it comes across as reassuring rather than menacing. “I am not going to bite you. I am _never_ going to bite you, and I am never going to let anyone else do it, either. Okay?”

 

Stiles is staring up at him but the look in his eyes is vacant, and suddenly he starts scrambling backwards on his elbows. Derek is reminded violently of the day he found Stiles out in the preserve.

 

“Please don’t,” he repeats, like it’s the only thing he can say. When he reaches the wall near the window his eyes get even wider, realizing there’s nowhere for him to go. Derek wants to go to him, but is terrified of making him feel caged in. “I’ll be good. I will, I- I swear.”

 

“You don’t have to be good,” Derek promises. “And you _are_ good. You’re so good, Stiles. No one is going to… to punish you. It’s okay.”

 

Stiles doesn’t seem to care.

 

He curls himself into the fetal position, and all Derek can do is stand there and stare, hating himself and the alphas and the whole damn universe.

 

“Stiles,” he says very carefully. “I’m going to come over to you, okay? If you want me to go away, I will.”

 

Stiles doesn’t answer so Derek creeps closer, crouching down to his level when he gets there. Slowly, slowly, he reaches out, setting a hand on one of Stiles’ arms. He can feel him trembling, and his gut twists. He caused this. It’s his fault. He _knew_ dating an alpha would be too much for Stiles, and he didn’t care. Or, rather, he _did_ , but he went through with it anyway. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 

“Hey, Stiles,” he says cautiously, shaking his arm a tiny bit. “Can you please look at me?”

 

Stiles ignores him.

 

“Stiles? It’s just me. Derek. You’re in my house. We were on a date. We were just kissing. No one was or is going to bite you. Whoever was before is gone now. You don’t need to worry about them. We are going to find them and catch them and they will never hurt anyone again. Okay? You’re safe.”

 

He goes on like that, repeating reassurances, and after a long time, Stiles very slowly peeks up at him.

 

Derek tries to smile, but he’s pretty sure it falls flat.

 

“Hi,” he says softly.

 

“Hi.”

 

Stiles’ voice is rough, croaky.

 

Derek keeps rubbing his arm, pulling the bit of pain that hitting the floor had sparked.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Like the world’s biggest idiot, for starters.” He grimaces. “Also, the biggest wimp, the biggest baby, the-”

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Sorry. I’m fine.” He sits up, leaning against the wall. “I’m fine. Let’s get back to our date. I’m fine.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek says gently. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

“Really, I am,” Stiles insists, frowning. “Everything is good. Just a minor setback. How long did that last? Maybe the dough will be ready soon.”

 

“ _Stiles_.”

 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This isn’t going to work.”

 

“…What?”

 

“Us, Stiles. We…. I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious that we can’t be a thing anymore. I’m sorry.”

 

Stiles looks like Derek just kicked his puppy. Kicked him while he was down, at the very least, and Derek feels terrible for it, but this isn’t something he can put off.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“I mean… You freaking out like that. It’s not-”

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says immediately. “Shit, I know, I’m sorry. I’m- I won’t do it again. I like you so much, please don’t let this get in the way. I’ll learn to control it, I really, really will. I know it’s annoying and awkward and pathetic but I’ve been getting better, you _know_ I have, and-”

 

“Stiles, stop.”

 

“No, no, listen, I’m _sorry_ , but please give me a chance. I swear to God, you’re one of the only good things in my life right now and I-”

 

He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, and Derek is relieved.

 

“Hey. _No_. Listen to me. It is _not_ because of you, Stiles. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, and I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I absolutely do not mind any reactions you have to _anything_ , and _I’m_ sorry I triggered you. We can talk about what I did in a few minutes so I can avoid doing it again. But this can’t be a thing because of _me_. I’m an alpha, and that is obviously not something that’s healthy for you right now. I really like you too, but _because_ I like you, I can’t stand making you freak out like that. I wouldn’t want to make someone I _hate_ freak out like that. You are so amazing, and so strong, and have recovered so much, but another alpha in your life is just not something you need right now.”

 

“No,” Stiles says again. “No, no way. If you don’t want this because you don’t want to deal with my shit, that’s fine. I know I said it wasn’t, but I’m still a little freaked out, and I wasn’t trying to guilt trip you. It’s _fine_. But if you don’t want to be together because you’re trying to protect me or something? Derek, you are one of the best people I know. Short of my family back home, no one cares about me like you do. No one has taken care of me like you have, period. You’re amazing, and alpha or not, I want you in my life.”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“I’m glad you feel that way, but I can be in your life without being in a relationship with you. How is this going to work? How can you possibly want me after… after _everything_? Things like this are going to keep happening. I can never know all your triggers, and I _hate_ doing this to you.”

 

“I love you,” Stiles says suddenly. Determinedly. But even _he_ looks surprised. “I- I do. And I know it’s probably creepy and coming on too strong and I know this is only our second date, but I can’t help it. I’m not just thinking about dates. I’m thinking about all the time we’ve spent together in the past few months. All the _constant_ time spent together. It feels like years, honestly, and no one has cared for me like you have. And I’m not mistaking gratitude for love, either, okay? I just. You are so important to me, Derek, and the thought of losing you because I’m too fucked up to handle the person I love is-”

 

“I love you too,” Derek says. He doesn’t know where it comes from. Stiles is right, it _hasn’t_ been that long, and Derek wasn’t totally sure before, but it hit him like a ton of bricks when Stiles said it first. “I do, Stiles. But I can _only_ do this if you are completely, one hundred percent sure. I can’t be the person making you relive all these bad memories unless you are totally sure that it’s worth it to you.”

 

“It is,” Stiles says, nodding vigorously. “I swear it is. I care about you so much, dude.” And only Stiles would call someone ‘dude’ in the middle of a declaration of love. “Maybe werewolves make me nervous, but _you_ don’t. I want this. I want you. And yeah, we’ll probably have more hiccups along the way, big ones sometimes, but it is _so_ worth it to me. Okay? And we’re gonna work through it. I mean. As long as you’re willing.”

 

And Derek kind of melts, because really, how is he supposed to resist that?

 

“Okay,” he says, reaching out to squeeze Stiles’ hand. He’d prefer a hug, but he still doesn’t know what he did to freak Stiles out. “Okay. I want this, too. Let’s do it.”

 

Stiles beams, squeezing Derek’s hand right back.

 

“Awesome. I, uh, I love you,” he says again, like he’s testing it out.

 

Derek laughs, ducking his head.

 

“I love you too, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Stiles breathes when they’re back in the kitchen. The dough is laid out on a pan now, ready for toppings. Derek is at work cutting onions—it doesn’t make stupid werewolves cry, apparently—while Stiles sits at the kitchen table across from him with the peppers. “We should probably. Talk.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, glancing up at him. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

Stiles bites his lip.

 

“Uh. Yeah. So like, when we were kissing? It was really good, okay? Like, definitely more of that in the future. But the thing was, when you got down to my neck, you were….” He laughs. “It sounds weird to say out loud. But y’know, you were kissing and licking and scaping your teeth against my throat and normally, yeah, that’s really hot. Except one time, Kali had me backed against a wall, and uh. There was nowhere to go. She had her whole body pressed against mine, and her mouth was right at my throat. Same warm breath, same scrape of teeth, except. She was threatening to bite me. She had her fangs out, right against my jugular, and every breath, every word made them press into me just a little. And honestly, I don’t even think that’s a place you can bite a person? I feel like they would probably bleed out before they turned. But I _really_ didn’t want to die, and she could’ve easily bitten me somewhere else. In the end she just laughed at me and walked away, but I was pretty freaked. Being human was the one thing that made them give me breaks, you know? If I healed right away, I didn’t think they would ever stop.” Derek looks sick, and Stiles brushes their legs together under the table.  “I’m okay now. It’s just a bad memory.”

 

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Derek says, gripping his knife tightly. “We’re going to get them back, I promise. And throat is off limits now, don’t worry about it.”

 

“Yeah, I know, man. I trust you. And uh, good, because the whole mouth against the neck thing is kind of a no-no for me right now. Which is sad, ‘cause I’ve always wanted a hickey.”

 

Derek laughs, which is nice to hear.

 

“No one’s ever given you a hickey?”

 

Stiles scoffs.

 

“Dude, no one has ever even wanted to date me before.”

 

Derek looks genuinely surprised, which is hysterical.

 

“I wouldn’t have expected that,” he says, reaching for another small onion.

 

“Why? I’m loud, sarcastic, only semi-decent-looking, etcetera, etcetera. Not exactly hard to believe.”

 

“Why would you say that?” Derek asks, weirdly serious.

 

“Um… because it’s true? I dunno, sorry, I didn’t mean to get all self-deprecating.”

 

“You’re loud because you have good things to say,” Derek says, brow furrowed. “Your sarcasm is funny, not annoying. And not good looking? Stiles, have you seen yourself?”

 

Stiles barks a sharp, bitter laugh.

 

“C’mon, now I know you’re lying. I don’t look that great on my best day, all skinny and covered in moles. But the version of me you’ve seen? Scarred and broken and- gross? _No_ one is into that, dude. I’d be a little concerned if you were.”

 

“I’m not _into_ it,” Derek says, setting down his knife. “Not… like _that_. But I don’t think it makes you look ugly. I think it makes you look strong. Brave.”

 

“I’m brave because I got the shit beaten out of me?”

 

“You’re brave because you’re still here. You got through it and you’re still fighting. There’s nothing ugly about battle scars, Stiles. I’ve seen pictures of you from… _before_ , and I thought you looked great back then. And now? The scars only make you look strong. They show what you survived, and nothing makes me happier than knowing you survived.”

 

“Shit, dude, you can’t say stuff like that,” Stiles says, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. “I’m not the one chopping onions, I have no excuse to cry.”

 

“Cut one, then,” Derek says, grinning as he rolls one across the table. “We already have enough for like ten pizzas, but that’s okay.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Mmm_ ,” Stiles says, snuggling further into Derek’s side as he takes another bite. “I would marry this pizza.”

 

Derek laughs, lowering the volume of the TV. They’re cuddled up on the couch together in relative darkness, watching one of Peter’s movies. It’s domestic. It’s nice. Derek can’t believe that only a couple of hours ago he tried to end this. There’ll be bumps in the road, sure, but as long as it’s worth it to Stiles, to the guy he loves, it’s worth it to him.

 

“It’s really good,” Derek agrees. “I didn’t see the appeal at first since ordering a pizza is so much easier, but… Wow.”

 

“I know,” Stiles says, moaning sinfully as he finishes his piece. Derek is glad Stiles is slumped lower than him so he misses the way Derek’s cheeks burn. “I need another slice.”

 

“Have my other one,” Derek says, nodding at the lone piece still sitting on the coffee table.

 

“Nah, dude, it’s yours. I’ll just go grab one.”

 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Derek admits, grabbing the pizza and handing it to Stiles. “Here.”

 

“Aww,” he coos, poking Derek in the side with his free hand. “What a big dork .”

 

“Shut up,” Derek mutters, squeezing the arm he has around Stiles’ shoulders tighter. “Just eat.”

 

“We’ll share,” Stiles says, taking a monstrous bite and then holding it up to Derek’s mouth.

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“Seriously?”

 

Harshly swallowing half his food, Stiles manages, “What? You think I have cooties? Newsflash, dude, but I think you already caught them.”

 

“Yeah, _I’m_ the dork,” Derek says, rolling his eyes fondly as he takes a bite.

 

It’s good. Really good. And so is this, relaxing here with Stiles in total peace.

 

He pointedly doesn’t let himself think about what will happen when they catch the alphas and Stiles moves back all the way across the country. For now, he just wants to enjoy this. Enjoy... finally loving someone again.

 

For real, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we happy now? ;) Stiles and Derek certainly are...
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me, I really appreciate every single one of you. I also really appreciate hearing your thoughts! <3


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little later at night than I tend to like to post, but hopefully some of you are still awake at the _crazy_ hour of 9:30 EST :P

The last few days have been nothing short of a whirlwind, as far as Derek is concerned. Loving someone is… weird. It’s been a long time since Derek has felt even a smidgeon of anything other than familial love for anyone, and he’s not used to… Well. The _butterflies_ , as Erica would put it. Speaking of Erica, Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever regain the part of his hearing he lost from the shriek she let out when she heard about the _love confessions_. Again, her words.

 

Derek has always liked Stiles, always thought him funny and charming and plain old nice, but now it’s like all of that has quadrupled. Now he can actually interact with Stiles freely without feeling like he’s reading too much into things, or like he’s the only one with these feelings, or like he’s a creep. Stiles likes him, loves him, and Derek is happy.

 

Derek is also _furious_. This new bond with Stiles has only made him hate the alphas more—particularly because of how he found _out_ Stiles loves him—and he’s called Chris Argent three times in the last two days. He doesn’t say anything about their relationship, doesn’t think that’s any of Chris’ business, just says he’s getting anxious with how long this is taking, and it’s definitely not a lie. He would go out looking for these damn alphas himself if it didn’t seem like such a suicidal move. He’s strong, but five-against-one will be a losing battle every time. Waiting for the hunters to do their job is the smartest move.

 

Unfortunately, it’s also a waiting game. According to Chris, they’ve been in contact with hunters all across the country, but it’s like the alphas have wiped themselves off the map. When Derek bitterly suggests maybe they drove their van into a ravine or something, Chris laughs for the first time. Says it’d be nice, but he was hoping to personally take at least one or two of the bastards out. Derek is reminded forcefully how much the Argents truly hate rogue werewolves, and it’s almost comforting. Chris is a man who follows the code. He’s not going to hurt anyone who hasn’t hurt a human, but if a werewolf has done even a fraction of what the alpha pack did to Stiles? Well, there’s a reason the Argents have the reputation they do, and it’s not just because of people like Kate.

 

The best Chris can offer him for now, though, is to send Allison over to do a little training with Stiles. Drop off a few weapons and teach him how to defend himself, to an extent. Derek agrees, because Stiles’ wellbeing is more important to him than any dislike he has of being around the Argents.

 

Derek gets Stiles’ approval and three hours later, Allison Argent pulls up to the house in a little blue car. It looks just like the one Kate used to drive, and Derek wonders if it’s the same car. He closes the curtain and takes a breath.

 

She rings the bell a few moments later, and Derek hears Stiles come down the stairs as he opens the front door. She’s wearing the same delicate silver bracelet as last time, her lips and cheeks the same pale pink. Contrastingly, she’s dressed in all black, from her boots to her leggings to her tank top to her leather jacket to the heavy-looking duffle bag she’s gripping in one hand.

 

When Stiles comes into view, he grins and says, “You look like a ninja.”

 

“Really? I was going for more of a funeral look. Like, mess with me and that’s the next time I’ll be seeing you.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Allison laughs.

 

“No, but I’m glad I give off the deadly vibe. Maybe I can just take you shopping instead of training. Get you something badass.”

 

“Ugh, that sounds even more torturous.”

 

“So,” Derek cuts in. “Will you be going out back?”

 

“Yes, Alpha Hale,” Allison says, looking much more serious than she did when she was speaking to Stiles. “If that’s alright with you.”

 

“That’s fine,” Derek says. “Not that I think we’ll have any trouble, but… Stiles doesn’t leave the house much. Yell if anything happens.”

 

“Of course, Alpha.”

 

“You can call him Derek,” Stiles says, shooing her into the house. “He’s a big softy.”

 

Allison looks a little surprised, which doesn’t surprise Derek.

 

“Sounds like you two have gotten close, then. I’m glad.”

 

Stiles cuts a glance at Derek, and says, “Really close, actually. We’re dating now.”

 

“Yeah?” Allison asks, raising an eyebrow. Derek understands her confusion. He hasn’t dated anyone since Kate—has sworn off dating in front of the nosy press several times, actually—and dating a human is even more surprising. _Almost_ as surprising as Stiles dating an alpha. “Well that’s great, I’m happy for you guys.”

 

“Me too,” Stiles says, seemingly oblivious. “Let’s go outside, I want to get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

“Hold it like _this_ ,” Allison says, readjusting Stiles’ grip.

 

“Um, I _really_ don’t think this is going to end well,” he says, allowing her to move his fingers. “I think flailing around with a kitchen knife is the extent of my ability.”

 

“Well this isn’t a knife,” Allison reminds, readjusting her stance once she lets him go, and he tries to stand the same way. “It’s a dagger.”

 

“Yeah, well I’m not Macbeth, and it didn’t even work out terribly well for him.”

 

“Yeah, well this is a _Chinese_ _ring_ dagger, and Macbeth was pathetic anyway,” she says, thrusting into the empty air out of nowhere.

 

From next to her, Stiles startles backwards, and his dagger skitters to the ground.

 

“Uh, same?” he says. “And this is not working.”

 

“Well it’s not gonna work from the ground,” she says, using the tip of her dagger to snatch his up. It dangles precariously from the ring at the end as she holds it out to him, and he sighs as he takes it back. “Show me how you hold it.”

 

He frowns, but holds the dagger like she did and stands how she said, and it makes her smile. She’s weirdly cute and innocent looking, considering how dangerous she is.

 

“Good! See, told you that you could do it.”

 

“Yeah, I can _hold_ it, that doesn’t mean I can take out an alpha. Ennis was like… 250 pounds of pure muscle. I think you could drive this straight into his chest and his pecs would stop you from ever reaching his heart.”

 

“You don’t have to drive it into his heart,” she says, walking over to the nearest tree and climbing to the lowest branch.

 

She squats on it, which is a ridiculous thing to even be able to do, and then leaps down, driving the daggers she holds in either hand into the back of their training dummy.

 

“Okay, well number one,” Stiles says, “remind me to _never_ fuck with you, and number two, yeah, um… I _cannot do that_.”

 

“You don’t have to be able to do that, Stiles. It’s a dagger. Slash around wildly with it, and you’re pretty dangerous. I’m just _saying_ , if you put time into learning techniques, you’ll be even better.”

 

“Even against a werewolf? I mean, that thing you did was pretty impressive, but against a _wolf_?”

 

“Of course I can. What would be the point if I couldn’t?”

 

“I dunno. It just seems kind of impossible. They have killer reflexes.”

 

Allison raises an eyebrow, challenging.

 

“So do I.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s up?” Erica calls, as she, Boyd, and Isaac appear at the edge of the clearing Stiles and Allison are in. “We were kind of watching TV.”

 

They regard Allison a little cautiously, and Stiles can’t blame them considering the dagger she’s casually swinging around one finger.

 

“Stiles doesn’t think I can take a werewolf in a fight,” Allison answers. “I figured I’d show him.”

 

Erica laughs.

 

“As sure I am that you can, my makeup looks _great_ today, so that’s gonna be a hard pass from me.”

 

“What about you?” Allison asks, turning to Boyd. “You up for it? I have armor, no one’s actually gonna get stabbed.”

 

“Boyd is _huge_ ,” Stiles says. “If you can’t actually stab him, how on earth are you gonna take him?” At a raised eyebrow from Boyd, he adds, “Not that I’m advocating stabbing anyone, dude. I just mean a werewolf obviously has superior strength, and you’re like 6’3. If she can’t really use her weapon, how is that gonna work?”

 

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Allison singsongs. “What do you say, Boyd? You up for a fight?”

 

“Uh… Not really. I’d pay to see you take on Isaac, though.”

 

“So would I,” Erica says. “In fact, I’d put ten bucks on Allison.”

 

“Me too,” he agrees.

 

“I would bet on myself, gladly,” Allison says easily. “And I think Stiles should have to match them, since he’s doubting me. How ‘bout it, Isaac?”

 

He looks at her warily.

 

“You promise you won’t stab me?”

 

She grins. 

 

“Promise.”

 

* * *

 

Allison gets Isaac decked out in some complicated looking black armor, which she promises will prevent any serious damage.

 

“I’m going to sheathe my dagger to be safe,” she announces. “I know you can heal, but uh, I don’t think Derek would invite me back if I was bloodying his betas.”

 

“Who says you’ll be bloodying me?” Isaac asks with false bravado.

 

“We’ll see, won’t we? Anyway, since I obviously can’t hurt you enough to force you to let me go without it, you’ll have to react accordingly anytime I hit you. This would be coated in wolfsbane in a real fight. You keep your claws in, but we’ll act like they’re out. Sound fair?”

 

“Fair,” Isaac agrees. “Everyone please keep in mind I have no idea how to actually fight, by the way.”

 

“Boo!” Erica calls. She’s sitting next to Boyd up in the tree Allison had climbed earlier. “No disclaimers! If you lose, we totally get to make fun of you.”

 

“ _When_ he loses,” Allison teases. “You ready?”

 

“Not at all,” Isaac says. “But let’s go.”

 

Allison doesn’t attack right away, and she and Isaac walk in an incredibly stereotypical circle. Stiles can’t tell if this is something she’d normally do, or if she’s just mirroring him. All of the sudden Isaac lunges, catching Stiles by surprise, but Allison is ready. The instant he moves she hits the ground, and does an impressive roll to the side. A surprised Isaac stops short a few feet behind where she was standing, and when he whips around to face her, she’s already up again.

 

“You suck!” Erica yells. “0 out of 10!”

 

“Shut up!”

 

He darts at Allison again, this time managing to grab her, but she gets her dagger in the hand gripping her hip in two seconds flat, slashing all the way up his forearm, and he lets go.

 

She stumbles free from his grip, and spins back to face him.

 

“Good,” she says, rubbing the fake wound in her side. “There’s probably a decent gash there now. But there’s also one in your hand, and that’s not going to heal anytime soon.”

 

Isaac looks like he’s going to say something, but this time she throws herself at him, and a seriously impressive kick stops _just_ short of his junk.

 

“And now you’re on the ground,” Allison says, beaming. “Werewolves have dicks, too.”

 

“I think my life just flashed before my eyes,” he says numbly.

 

Erica is suppressing hopeless laughter in the shoulder of a wincing Boyd. Yeah, Stiles definitely felt the phantom pain too. Even he has to laugh, though, despite the fact that he’s probably gonna lose thirty bucks really soon.

 

“Good,” Allison says, and she looks like she’s holding in giggles too. Girls are _terrifying_. “Now get down.”

 

“Now, this just seems unfair,” Isaac says, sprawling himself out on the ground in a decent approximation of what he would look like if that truly unfortunate kick had hit home.

 

“Should’ve defended yourself better, then,” Allison says amicably. “Someone call it.”

 

“Got it,” Erica volunteers. “Three, two, one, kick his ass!”

 

“Hey!” Isaac shouts, and he’s three-quarters the way off the ground before Allison pounces on him in a surprisingly graceful… body slam? Stiles doesn’t really know what else to call it, but she somehow ends up sitting on his chest, boots planted firmly on each of his wrists, which are pinned above his head. He’s stronger than her, of course, but when he makes to throw her off a dagger is instantly at his throat.

 

“Move another muscle and you die.”

 

Stiles has never seen someone look so pleased to deliver a threat.

 

“I can move faster than you,” Isaac says defiantly. “I could have you off me before you got to slit my throat.”

 

She leans in closer, so her face is right in front of his.

 

“If I had a poison blade to your jugular, would you want to take the chance? Also,” she says, digging one foot further into his left hand. “You’re already poisoned and bleeding here, remember? It _hurts_. You’ll die without the cure.” Her voice is sugary sweet, false sympathetic, and Isaac rolls his eyes. “Don’t you want to resolve this peacefully at this point?”

 

He groans.

 

“If it means I can get up now, then yes. Yes, I very much would like that.”

 

Allison laughs and gets off him, reaching out a hand to pull him up.

 

“No thanks,” Isaac says, giving her a look as he stands on his own. “God knows you’ll try to flip me or something.”

 

“Hey,” she says, lightly shoving his arm. “I resent that.”

 

“I resent almost losing my nuts to a combat boot,” he says. “But that was certainly an interesting first interaction.”

 

“Definitely better than The Walking Dead reruns,” Erica says, hopping down from her perch. “Stiles, I’ll take my ten dollars now.”

 

“Me too,” Allison says, hand on her hip. “I think I earned it.”

 

“Hate to break it to you, especially because that was an _excellent_ show, but I don’t think I _have_ thirty bucks. When was the last time I even left the house?”

 

“Not cool, dude,” Boyd mutters.

 

“Hey, make Isaac pay you! He’s the one who lost!”

 

“Lost the fight,” Isaac says. “Lost my dignity. Will _not_ be losing the little money I have in my bank account. Here, how about…” He pulls out his wallet. “Allison, you don’t get anything, because the satisfaction of beating me, and the friends—or _fans_ ,” he says, glaring at the others, “you made along the way are the true prize. Erica, you can have my last three dollars and this Canadian nickel,” he goes on, handing the money to her. “And Boyd... Sorry bud. All I have left is this condom.”

 

Allison flushes when he really does pull a condom from his wallet, holding it out to Boyd.

 

“Dude,” Boyd says disdainfully, taking the faded wrapper between two fingers. “How long has this been in here? That isn’t even safe anymore.”

 

“Since they gave them out in freshmen health,” Isaac laughs, taking it back. “What can I say? I’m sentimental.”

 

“You’re a perv, is what you are,” Erica says, shaking her head. “Boyd has some real ones in the upstairs bathroom, by the way, if you ever _do_ get some poor soul to sleep with you.”

 

Ah. Okay. _Boyd’s._

 

Can Stiles be blamed for wondering whose they were when he came across the XL condoms while looking for his pills one night?

 

“Gee, I’m sorry my childhood treasures aren’t good enough for you, Boyd,” Isaac says with a shit-eating grin as he repockets the wallet. “Well, that’s all I have to offer. Allison, it was nice to finally meet you. If I go now, I think I can make it back in time to watch Shane and Rick fight. I’d love to see someone who’s not me get their ass kicked.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve also won plenty of _real_ fights against werewolves,” Allison says when they’re alone. She’s rifling through the duffle bag she brought with her. “Just so you know.”

 

“How many times have you actually been in that position?” Stiles asks, frowning.

 

“Well we spar with real wolves,” Allison says. “It’s a lot more vicious than what Isaac and I just did. I have a scar on my chest from one of those. And then I’ve been in… four real close range fights with wolves, but that’s not really my thing. I’ve been in a ton from a distance. Crossbows and bows and arrows are my specialty. I’m not gonna bother showing you how to use those, because you would never have one on hand in a real fight, but that’s okay.”

 

“Well, what _might_ I have in a real fight?”

 

“These,” Allison says, handing him two small, thin, plastic packages. “I’d recommend carrying these around in your pocket from now on.”

 

One packet is filled with black, ashy powder, the other with a dark, glittering blue.

 

“This is mountain ash,” Allison says, pointing at the darker one. “The blue one is _Aconit Napel Bleu Nordique_.”

 

“Um… what?”

 

“Nordic Blue Monkshood,” she explains. “Wolfsbane. Very poisonous, even to humans. Normally you’d like to handle it with gloves on, but in an emergency, you’re obviously gonna do what you can. Just try not to swallow it, yeah?”

 

“I think I can handle that.”

 

“Good,” she says. “There’s also a yellow strain, _Aconitum anthora_ , but that’s more a paralytic/tranquilizer situation. Also useful, but much harder to get your hands on. I’m sure Dad has some somewhere, but I’ll have to ask him. Now, I assume you know it’s basically werewolf kryptonite. It won’t kill them right away, but it’s pretty debilitating in a fight. Remember, sometimes it can force wolves further into their shift, but that’s not a bad thing. That means they’re losing control, not getting stronger. Don’t be afraid.”

 

“I dunno about not being afraid, but this is good to have.”

 

“The best cure for fear is weapons.”

 

“Wow, you should totally cross-stitch that on a pillow.”

 

Allison smirks.

 

“If you arm yourself well, you’re probably going to be okay. Which is why, aside from those…” she says, kneeling to dig in her bag again, “you’re going to keep these in your bedroom. Or wherever in the house you want. I’d recommend keeping one somewhere near the front door, too.”

 

She hands him three sheathed daggers.

 

“Now, those _are_ wolfsbane coated, so please warn everyone not to touch them.”

 

“Will do.”

 

She rummages some more and produces a small yellow Taser.

 

“This is at the correct setting to stop a werewolf from shifting. _Do not adjust it_.”

 

“Got it,” Stiles says, taking that too.

 

“That will only last as long as it’s shocking them, and for a few seconds after, so it’s just going to give you a little time to get the upper hand. Excellent opportunity to circle the person in mountain ash, okay?”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“Good. And if someone in Derek’s pack _does_ manage to poison themselves, here.” She hands him one more package. “This is the same strand. You pour this in the wound, and you burn it out. And call me, too, so I can come make sure it’s been done right. Okay?”

 

“Sounds painful,” Stiles says, swallowing the lump that forms in his throat from the memory of Kali dragging a lighter across his back. “But uh, yeah. I’ll warn them, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“Great,” Allison says. “Now let’s see if _you_ can kick my ass, huh?”

 

* * *

 

Derek could scarcely believe it when he found out what the betas were doing outside with Stiles and Allison. He knows they never met Kate, but they’ve always hated the Argents right alongside him, always wished them ill just as much as he did. And yeah, sure, even _he’s_ warmed up to them lately, but not nearly to the extent his betas apparently have. He’s entirely unsurprised to learn they didn’t bring Cora with them. Part of him is glad they’re mending their relationship with hunters, but another is still… Not wary. But… _Something_. He knows Allison won’t hurt them, that she never did anything wrong and that Chris even turned his back on his family when he learned what they did, but. It’s hard, sometimes. He tries to be happy for his betas, though. He knows they already liked Allison a little since she made those amazing cookies for Stiles the other week, and apparently they even like her in person, now, or at least respect her. Despite how he personally feels about the family, he knows it’s always a good thing for a pack to be on good terms with the local hunters, and he tells them as much. He’s glad they’re not scared of Allison. Glad they feel safe and unafraid and able to hold their own.

 

(Even if Isaac hadn’t. Maybe he needs to get the whole pack sparring again.)

 

No matter her family’s past, Derek is glad that the betas find Allison agreeable, and that Stiles really likes her. Then again, he doesn’t know about the fire. Still, it’s not Allison’s fault, and Derek should probably join everyone in liking her. At least a tiny bit.

 

“That was just unfair,” Stiles’ voice floats in from the back door. Derek stands up from couch. “You’re _mean_.”

 

“I’m not mean,” Allison says, sounding very happy. “I’m _good_. And you’re gonna be good too. And-” She lowers her voice, but Derek doesn’t feel guilty for listening in. “And you’re going to be okay, Stiles. I promise you are. Whether you have to defend yourself, or Derek is there to protect you, or me and Dad catch these guys before anything has a chance to go down. I _promise_ you’re going to come out of this just fine, okay? I believe in you.”

 

Fabric rustles, then, and Derek thinks maybe they’re hugging.

 

Allison really does make it kind of hard to dislike the remaining Argents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: [This video was great inspiration for this chapter!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F95ElID79PQ&index=28&list=LL1DWATpS4q649UhVIqucAuQ) It's awesome, and I forgot to include it at first.  
> I have been having The Week (and a half) from Hell, and starting tomorrow it will be The Week from Hell: The Return of the Awfulness, so I figured I'd update my WIPs to make myself feel better. Hopefully it brightens your night a little, too :) As always, comments are very much appreciated <3


	38. Chapter 38

Derek wakes to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream coming from Stiles’ room, and it feels as though all the air has been knocked out of his lungs.

 

Shit, shit, shit.

 

He _knew_ the alphas would be back

 

He jumps out of bed, and when his tangled sheet doesn’t immediately fall away, he uses his claws to rip it off. Boyd is already in the hallway by the time Derek reaches Stiles’ door, and Isaac is stopped halfway down the stairs. Derek holds up a hand to keep him there, not wanting all of his betas to run straight into an ambush, but he nods for Boyd to follow him. He’s his second, and aside from Peter, the most proficient in a fight.

 

Boyd nods back and Derek wrenches the door open, fangs bared, claws out, ready for battle. Ready to die, to kill, for Stiles.

 

Stiles, who’s the only one in the room.

 

Stiles, who’s thrashing madly in bed, all alone, still screaming like he’s being gutted.

 

“ _Stiles_?”

 

It comes out garbled past Derek’s fangs, which he retracts along with his claws as he rushes to Stiles’ side, quickly scanning him for injuries.

 

 _A nightmare_ , he realizes.

 

“Stiles!” he says again, because despite having his eyes open, despite seeing Derek right in front of him, he’s still _screaming_. It’s one of the most pained, desperate sounds Derek has ever heard. “Stiles!”

 

He doesn’t react at all and Derek has to make the decision between touching him or backing far, far away.

 

Unable to hear Stiles suffering any longer, he grabs him in his arms to stop the wild flailing, pulling him so they’re chest to chest. Derek makes sure to keep Stiles’ eyes above his shoulder so he doesn’t feel caged in.

 

“Stiles, it’s _me_. It was just a dream. You’re awake. You’re home. You’re here with me.”

 

Stiles next scream is quieter, and there’s panting between that one and the next, till after what feels like an eternity but is probably no more than ten seconds since Derek fully woke him, he stills, and they taper off. He slumps against Derek and Derek pulls back to look at him, but keeps a strong hold on Stiles’ sides.

 

“You’re okay,” he says firmly. The look on Stiles’ face, the abject horror, the mouth that’s working silently like he’s trying to form words but can barely breathe, the tears streaming freely down his face, are horrifying. “I have you. I’ve got you, Stiles. No one is going to hurt you. Okay?”

 

Stiles nods jerkily, and his lip trembles as he tries to talk again.

 

“It’s okay,” Derek says, very gently pulling Stiles back in, and giving him ample time to object now. He doesn’t, and slumps back against Derek, raising shaky arms to hug him. Derek continues on in a soothing tone, “I’ve got you. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe. You’re here and I love you and I’ll never let <em>anyone</em> hurt you.”

 

“I love you too,” Stiles murmurs, voice so weak and low Derek wouldn’t have caught it if he weren’t a werewolf.

 

Derek turns his head to catch Boyd’s eye, but he’s already left them to their privacy, so he kisses Stiles’ hair instead.

 

“Do you want to sit?” Derek asks after a while. Stiles nods into his shoulder. “Okay.”

 

He lets go of Stiles, allowing him to settle against the headboard, and then moves to sit beside him. He drapes an arm around Stiles’ shoulders like he does when they’re cuddling, pulling him close.

 

“Was it a memory?”

 

Stiles hesitates, but before Derek can say he doesn’t have to answer, he nods.

 

“Okay,” Derek says quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Stiles shakes his head violently, and Derek squeezes him tighter.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

 

That had calmed Stiles considerably the last time he had a nightmare.

 

“I don’t feel like walking around,” Stiles says, voice hoarse.

 

His screams really were impressive.

 

“But you want it?”

 

“Not as much as I want to be with you.”

 

Derek gives him an indulgent smile.

 

“Come on,” he says, and stands. Stiles looks like he’s going to protest, but then Derek moves to pick him up in a bridal carry. He used to do this when Cora was little. “Okay?”

 

Stiles looks incredulous for a moment, but then he nods, a small smile flashing across his face, and relief floods through Derek. He can’t _stand_ seeing Stiles so upset.

 

Derek hefts Stiles out of bed easily, and Stiles instinctively wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. They head out of his room, and Stiles huffs a weak laugh when they reach the stairs.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“What?” Derek asks, grinning at him. “You too old to be carried down the stairs?”

 

“Too old to need it,” Stiles mutters. “Too old to be having nightmares.”

 

“Everyone has nightmares,” Derek says, carefully starting down the stairs.

 

“Everyone doesn’t wake up screaming like a little kid.”

 

“Everyone hasn’t been through what you have.”

 

Stiles frowns, beaten.

 

“Still.”

 

“Still nothing,” Derek says, gently sitting Stiles on the kitchen counter so he can be right next to him. “You went through a lot, and you’re strong no matter what you say.”

 

Stiles sighs, and Derek squeezes his hand before starting to rummage through the cabinets for ingredients. He gathers everything quickly and turns on the stove.

 

“Talk to me,” he says, hoping to distract Stiles. “What’s up?”

 

* * *

 

“I dunno,” Stiles says, scratching at the back of his neck.

 

He pulls his feet up onto the counter, too, so he can pull his knees to his chest.

 

He can’t stop thinking about his nightmare.

 

It wasn’t a memory, like he told Derek, and he’s glad his heart was probably beating too fast for him to tell it was a lie. The dream, the nightmare, was _really_ that everything with Derek was a dream. That he woke up back with the alphas and they laughed at him when he demanded to know where Derek was, mocked him and said they must’ve knocked him around too much, because he was starting to hallucinate. And then they went right back to hurting him, making cruel jokes about Derek all the while. About how he must be developing Stockholm syndrome or something if he’s dreaming about an alpha, of all people, coming to save him.

 

When Derek dragged him in for a hug, Stiles wasn’t even sure if he was real. He can tell he’s not dreaming anymore, that this is real life and everything with Derek always has been, but- It was still freaky. Still horrifying. And he definitely doesn’t want to leave Derek’s side for a while.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Huh?” he asks.

 

He realizes he’s been chewing on his thumbnail, and pulls it away from his mouth.

 

“I asked if you wanted to watch a movie or something when this is done,” Derek repeats calmly. He puts a hand on Stiles’ knee and gives it a reassuring shake as he reaches over him to put the cocoa powder away. “Which should be in just a few minutes.”

 

“Uh, I dunno. Not really. Allison’s coming over in the morning, I need some sleep.”

 

“We can always call to cancel,” Derek says easily. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a day off.”

 

“Eh. I kinda want to get to bed anyway.” And he’s sure he’s already woken the whole house, he doesn’t need to make any more noise. “Don’t feel like doing too much more thinking tonight.”

 

“Got it,” Derek says. “Cocoa, then bed.”

 

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, shooting him a grateful look. “Smells good, too.”

 

Derek laughs, and the sight, him smiling, wearing faded pajamas, sporting some serious bedhead, makes Stiles feel warm and fuzzy. _This_ is real life. Not the alphas, anymore. Just Derek.

 

“I told you, this was my mom’s secret family recipe.”

 

“Not that secret, I’m sitting right here.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“You’re kind of like family,” he says, eyes warm. Stiles just about melts. “And here, it’s all done.”

 

He turns off the stove and grabs two mugs, filling each with steaming hot chocolate.

 

“You want whipped cream?”

 

“Nah, this is nice and warm, I’m good.”

 

“Good,” Derek says, handing him one of the mugs. Stiles immediately wraps both hands around it, taking in the warmth. “I’m not sure I can carry you upstairs while we’re holding these, though.”

 

“That’s okay,” Stiles says, taking a sip. Fuck, it really is comforting. And delicious. “I’m alright now.”

 

That’s not _exactly_ true, but he is much better than before. Derek always makes him feel better.

 

“Okay,” Derek says, nudging him so he’ll get off the counter. “Come on, it’s cold down here.”

 

Derek’s one of those people who always wears shoes during the day, or at least socks, and his bare feet look oddly cute, even if the tiles are freezing them.

 

Stiles slides off the counter and Derek slips his free arm around his waist, the two of them heading back upstairs. When they reach the top, Derek hesitates.

 

After a moment, he says, “Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?”

 

Stiles blinks at him.

 

“What?”

 

“Only if you want to, Stiles. We can just sit together for a while if that’s better. I just thought… for both our peace of mind, maybe.”

 

Right. Derek’s probably still pretty freaked out, too. Still, the thought of being in Derek’s bed… _does things_ to him. Good things, though. It’s so domestic.

 

“No, that’s fine,” he says. “It’s… good. I think I could use some company tonight.”

 

Derek is visibly relieved, and Stiles knows he made a good choice.

 

“Come on,” Derek says, ushering Stiles into his room. Stiles has never actually been in here before, but it’s pretty nice. The bed is a queen even though it’s just Derek all by himself. There’s a nice desk with a computer, two closets and a wardrobe, and some framed pictures on the wall of people Stiles has never seen, but who bear a striking resemblance to Derek. Cousins, maybe. There’s also a shredded sheet on the floor, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Derek had torn it off himself when he heard Stiles screaming. Pulling Stiles from his thoughts, Derek says, “Let me hold that.”

 

He takes Stiles’ mug as he gets settled in the bed, then passes it back to him as he climbs in. There are lots of pillows, and it’s comfy, but Stiles realizes he’s missing his own. He’ll worry about that later though. Hot chocolate for now. He and Derek sit very close together, sipping quietly. It’s a really good way to decompress, and Stiles much prefers it to laying fitfully in the dark, pretending sleep will come for him soon. By the time he’s done, and the dregs of his drink have turned cold, he feels pretty sated. Derek takes the cup from him without Stiles having to ask, and sets in next to his own on the nightstand.

 

Stiles doesn’t realize just how sleepy he is till Derek asks, “Are you ready to try going to bed?”

 

Stiles nods, slumping down until he’s lying next to Derek, who carefully maneuvers him so his head is on Derek’s chest. Derek, who’s propped up just a little bit, pets a gentle hand over Stiles’ hair, and settles the other on the small of his back.

 

Stiles slowly drifts to sleep, and Derek keeps up the soothing motion the whole time.

 

Stiles doesn’t miss his pillow once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO SUPER IMPORTANT THINGS:   
> 1) Well, guess whose last day of high school was yesterday... Yours truly! Which means no more month-long waits between updates! I am done with AP tests, all of my finals (except physics, 'cause they wanna mess with us one last time on Monday), and _school_. Which is... crazy. But amazing in terms of this fic, because prepare for much more frequent updates! I've been waiting for summer allllll year so I could get a shit ton of writing done, and I don't plan to squander the opportunity. So I hope you enjoyed this, and congrats to anyone else graduating this year!  <3  
> 2) Here's [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCWlTmrWi_8&index=4&list=LL1DWATpS4q649UhVIqucAuQ) [videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CXqTRdO-P0&index=3&list=LL1DWATpS4q649UhVIqucAuQ) of Stiles waking himself with his own screams to ruin your night :)


	39. Chapter 39

When Stiles wakes, he immediately feels disoriented, and it only takes a moment for fear to grip him.

 

Where is he? Why is he here? This isn’t his bed.

 

He’s only panicked for a few seconds before he jerks up, and is promptly stopped by a strong weight against his chest.

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

Right. He slept in Derek’s bed last night. He immediately relaxes, and the tension drains out of him as he melts back against Derek’s chest. The only other person’s bed he ever slept in was Scott’s, and that was nowhere near as intimate as this.

 

Thankfully Stiles’ sudden movement hadn’t woken Derek, who’s still soundly asleep. Not surprising, considering Stiles woke him in the middle of the night. He’s snoring softly, and every time he takes a breath his chest rises and falls a little, moving Stiles’ head along with it. Otherwise, it’s utterly silent. There’s a little bit of sunlight pouring in from the crack between Derek’s dark blue curtains. He must’ve left the window open last night, because the room is very cool—not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to make Stiles snuggle just a little bit closer to him.

 

Even asleep, Derek must feel him squirming around again, because he makes a grumbly little noise and tightens his hold. It’s probably the cutest thing Stiles has ever experienced. He submits himself to the fact that he’ll be here awhile, which is more than fine by him, and turns his head sideways so his face is partially buried in Derek’s soft pajama shirt. He reaches one arm up so he’s kind of half-hugging Derek back, and closes his eyes again.

 

* * *

 

Derek wakes slowly, and it takes him a few long moments to realize the extra weight on his chest is a person.

 

Right. Stiles had fallen asleep in his bed last night.

 

The room is a little chilly, but Stiles is warm and cozy against him. Derek focuses his hearing and notices that Stiles is awake, even though his eyes are closed and he’s lying still.

 

“Stiles?” he says, voice coming out low and hoarse. God, he’s tired. “You up?”

 

Stiles’ eyes flicker open and he rolls them all the way up to look at Derek. The little bit of sunlight spilling through the curtains glints off them beautifully.

 

“Hi.”

 

Derek gives him a small smile, and squeezes him a little.

 

“Hey. How long have you been up?”

 

“Dunno. An hour? Didn’t want to wake you.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Derek tells him. “You could’ve woken me. I wasn’t trying to keep you here.”

 

“I dunno,” Stiles says, grinning up at him. “You were kinda using me as your teddy bear.” Derek feels himself flush. “Don’t worry dude, it was adorable. Trust me, I wasn’t trying to get out of this nice cozy bed and actually go do some work or something anyway.”

 

“Good,” Derek says, kissing the top of Stiles’ head, then loosening his grip a little. “Why don’t you come up here?”

 

Stiles complies, moving up the bed a little so his head is next to Derek’s. He rolls over so half his stomach is on the mattress, half propped on Derek, and hugs him. His head is hooked over Derek’s shoulder, right next to his ear.

 

“Thank you for last night,” he murmurs.

 

“Don’t,” Derek says, wrapping his arm back around him. “I love you.”

 

Stiles swallows hard, then buries his face in Derek’s neck.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

“Ooh, I smell something good,” Isaac says, still rubbing his eyes as he lumbers into the kitchen.

 

“That’s my new cologne,” Peter says idly, as he taps away at his phone. He’s sitting next to Derek at the table, while Stiles is at the stove. “Thank you for noticing.”

 

“Ha, ha,” Isaac says, plunking down next to him. “What’s cooking, Stiles?”

 

“Pancakes.”

 

“What kind?”

 

“Whatever you want. I’ve got blueberries, chocolate chips, and bananas.”

 

He nods at three separate bowls of batter sitting on the counter.

 

“Whatever you’ve already got going is good for me. Smells _amazing_.”

 

“Banana,” Stiles says, flipping a pancake. “Do me a favor and text the others about what they want.”

 

“Sure,” Isaac says, taking out his phone. “So, what’s the occasion?”

 

“These are _sorry I woke you all up with my screams last night_ pancakes.”

 

“Well, that’s totally stupid,” Isaac says, “but I really like not having to cook.”

 

Stiles laughs, and flips another one.

 

“Boyd wants chocolate chip, by the way, and he thinks you’re ridiculous too. But Erica and Cora are going out for breakfast together, so don’t worry about them.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

* * *

 

Derek has a mouthful of pancakes when his phone rings, but it’s Jennifer, so he answers anyway.

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Derek? Tell me you’re up and dressed.”

 

He swallows down the syrupy mess, frowning.

 

“I’m… up? Why do I need to be dressed?”

 

“Derek!”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“There is a _press conference_ today! You know? The press? The people who decide how you’re portrayed in the media? The people who want to know what the ever-loving hell is going on with the _kidnapping victim_?”

 

“His name is Stiles,” Derek defends lamely.

 

He _does_ remember Jennifer telling him about that, now that she mentions it.

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, and mouths,  _W_ _ho is that?_

 

Derek shakes his head, because Jennifer is busy berating him.

 

“Derek, I swear to God, if you’re not here _exactly_ at noon…”

 

She’s typing feverishly on her keyboard, and doesn’t sound very happy.

 

“I will be!”

 

“In a _suit_.”

 

“ _Okay_.”

 

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” she says. “ _You’re_ the one who forgot.”

 

“You didn’t remind me!”

 

“You normally remember _important commitments_ on your own.”

 

“This is the _least_ important thing in my life right now.”

 

It’s kind of a pathetic excuse. He spent the morning eating pancakes and cuddling with Stiles, but _still_. Everyone around here deserves a little normalcy.

 

“Yeah, well you know who it’s important to? Your _people_. Who Stiles is only _one_ of. Actually, he’s not _even_ yours. And I know you want to protect him, and that’s awesome, but what if someone else gets kidnapped while your back is turned? And the alpha refuses to even _talk_ about what’s going on? What then?”

 

“That’s not going to happen,” Derek huffs, getting up from the table. He heads out the back door and leans against the house. “This is more complicated than you understand. Stiles is _important_ to them. And to me.”

 

“Derek, I know you want to protect him, and that’s all well and good. I want him to be okay, too. But you know who else you have to protect? _Everyone in Beacon County_. And frankly, a lot of people are getting scared. A few months ago, we casually mention that a pack of werewolves has kidnapped and viciously attacked a human, and then the public never hears about it again. Do you know what kind of rumors are flying?”

 

“No,” Derek says reluctantly.

 

“That’s right, because you never leave your house!”

 

“Jennifer.”

 

“You can _Jennifer_ me all you want, but you _don’t_ leave the goddamn house. You’re shut in with a kidnapping victim and haven’t given any news on what’s going on, and it’s scaring people. The theories are getting _ridiculous_. One station had the audacity to suggest maybe you’re in on it. Most people aren’t dumb enough to believe that, but you know how some people are. Especially with… your past.” Her voice is more gentle now. “I only want to protect you, Derek. I _need_ you to come out and do damage control. Just for half an hour, promise. Okay?”

 

Fuck.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “You’ll be at Town Hall at _noon_ , right?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Yes, fine. And… Jennifer?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Stiles and I are dating, now.”

 

She stops typing.

 

“Oh, _hell_ , Derek.”

 

* * *

 

“How are you feeling today?” Derek asks, pulling a suit jacket out of his closet. “Better?”

 

“Good,” Stiles says, curling up tighter on Derek’s bed. “Making breakfast helped take my mind off things. And you were really helpful last night.”

 

“I’m glad,” Derek says. “Do you mind?”

 

He holds up his shirt, and Stiles smirks.

 

“What, if you change? Be my _guest_.”

 

Derek gives a put-upon sigh.

 

“You’re a creep.”

 

“It’s not _my_ fault you’re so sexy,” Stiles teases.

 

“ _Creep._ ”

 

He strips off his shirt, and Stiles wolf-whistles.

 

Derek rolls his eyes fondly, turning away as he starts to put on his shirt.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” Stiles says. “What is _that_?”

 

“What?” Derek asks, glancing back at him over his shoulder.

 

“ _That_ ,” Stiles says, wriggling out from under the sheet.

 

He comes up behind Derek and pulls the shirt away, tracing his finger in a swirl along Derek’s back.

 

“My tattoo?”

 

“Um, _yes_. How did this never come up?”

 

“Do you not… like tattoos?”

 

“Gee, lemme see, do I not _like_ the super hot, swirling tattoo that ripples along with your back muscles? _Hmmmmm_ …”

 

“You’re a dork,” Derek says, pulling his shirt on and starting to button it up. “But I’m glad you like it.”

 

“It’s hot,” Stiles says, tracing the outline of it through the shirt again while Derek ties his tie. “Does it mean something?”

 

“It’s a triskele,” Derek says. Stiles pouts when he turns back around. “To me it means alpha, beta, omega. Anyone can rise or fall.”

 

“That’s kinda cool,” Stiles says. “I like it.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, shrugging his jacket on. “Me too.”

 

“Did it hurt? Scotty has one, and they had to burn it in.”

 

“I think you just answered your own question. They do it with wolfsbane.”

 

Stiles shudders.

 

“Yuck. I do _not_ have that kind of pain tolerance.”

 

There’s something ironic in that, but Derek certainly isn’t going to say anything.

 

“It hurts less for humans.”

 

“Still. It’s a _needle_ going into your skin. Like, a _bajillion_ times. No, thank you.”

 

“Fair enough,” Derek says, grabbing his pants. “You wanna turn around?”

 

Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin.

 

“You want me to?”

 

“You can do whatever you want,” Derek says, raising a challenging eyebrow as he unties the string of his pajama pants.

 

Stiles doesn’t move, so he tugs them all the way down and kicks them in the direction of his hamper.

 

“That’s a very bold statement for someone wearing just his boxers.”

 

“Hilarious,” Derek says. He knows Stiles is just teasing—at least, he’s pretty sure—but his eyes _are_ lingering on Derek’s boxers. He hasn’t been with anyone since Kate, and now isn’t the time. The attention doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but he does want his first time with Stiles to be a little more special than when he’s half-dressed before a press conference. “But if I’m not at Town Hall in half an hour, Jennifer will have my head.”

 

“Hey, I’m just enjoying the view,” Stiles says, winking. “ _You’re_ the one who hasn’t put his pants on yet.”

 

Derek gives him a _look,_ and steps into his slacks.

 

“Happy?”

 

“Are you excited for your press conference, or are you just happy to see me?” Stiles mocks in an over-the-top sultry voice.

 

Derek isn’t even hard, and he rolls his eyes again.

 

“You are the worst person I’ve ever met,” he says. “Absolutely incorrigible.”

 

“Make sure to tell the reporters that.”

 

“I will,” Derek says, buttoning the dress pants. “It’ll be my official statement.”

 

“You won’t _have_ an official statement if you don’t get your ass in the car soon.”

 

“I know, I know,” Derek mutters, looking himself over in the full-length mirror in his closet. “Don’t remind me.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a small stage set up outside Town Hall, with a podium in the front. There are chairs lining the back, filled with important people who Derek makes a point of shaking hands with. Two neighboring Alphas are there too, and Derek stops for a brief conversation with both of them. More chairs fill out the whole area below the stage, filled with reporters and journalists. Behind them are cameramen, who Derek plans to avoid contact with till he reaches the podium. Jennifer is up to speak first, so Derek watches attentively as she addresses the crowd.

 

At first, it’s a lot of stupid but necessary bull, Jennifer saying what a lovely day it is and thanking everyone for coming out. Talking about what a wonderful place Beacon County is and how she’s glad the people are so interested in the goings-on, etcetera, etcetera.

 

“We’re going to break tradition a little and skip straight to questions, since I know we’re all very eager,” Jennifer finally says. “Alpha Hale, if you will.”

 

There’s applause as Derek steps up to the podium and Jennifer moves to stand behind him.

 

“Hello,” he says, raising a hand in greeting. “Thank you all for joining us today. Like Ms. Blake said, we’re going to start with some questions. If we feel there’s any important information that’s been left out at the end, we’ll fill you in on that, too.”

 

Every reporter’s hand goes up, and Derek calls on a familiar face, knowing she always goes easy on him. She’s been reporting in Beacon Hills since his mother was a new alpha.

 

“Good morning, Alpha. I think the first thing everyone wants to know is if the public is safe from this gang of werewolves we’ve been told about.”

 

“We have spent the last few months doing everything in our power to ensure that the public is and remains as safe as possible,” Derek says, keeping his voice calm and sure. It’s one of the things the press loves about him, which is kind of funny, since he hardly knows what he’s doing. “The BHPD and BCPD are both doing their usual excellent job of patrolling and watching out for my people. Every cop on the force is well-trained and well-equipped, and knows how to hold their own in a dangerous situation, whether that be with a werewolf or a human. God forbid anything should happen, I know firsthand what an amazing place Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital is, with its first-rate staff and excellent hospital director of thirty years, Dr. Alan Deaton. Still, my staff and I _doubt_ it will come to anything so drastic as that, considering we have two of the most respected hunters in the territory, Christopher and Allison Argent, working tirelessly alongside us to resolve this matter as quickly as possible.”

 

“Thank you,” the reporter says, giving him an indulgent smile. Derek gives her a nod, and chooses another.

 

“Yes, Alpha Hale, you mentioned the hospital and the police force, but many of us find it concerning that they refused to help the human who was attacked. Isn’t it the job of the hospital to help any injured person? And of the police force to deal with matters just like this?”

 

 

God, does Derek hate questions with ridiculously long answers. 

 

“In a normal situation, you’re absolutely right. However, there were extreme and extenuating circumstances involved in this case. The police force doesn’t have any hunters on it, although we would greatly appreciate that. We’re always looking for hunting families to send their next generation to join the force. Had we not chosen to get hunters involved, though, the police certainly would have gotten on the case.” Lie. Total lie. Well, maybe not; Derek might’ve threatened to kick Haigh’s ass if he didn’t get his head out of it. “As for the hospital, the aforementioned hospital director has, of course, also been emissary to my pack for thirty years. As you all know, my mother chose Dr. Deaton when she was alpha.” That always gets him some sympathy. “He’s worked with my pack, been an integral part of my pack, since before I was born. I trust him with my life, as does the victim.” Eh. Stiles gave him permission to do some hand-waving, and he kind of likes Deaton. “As Ms. Blake discussed at the last conference, my home has long been equipped with any hospital supplies Dr. Deaton may need, and he personally took care of all injuries plaguing the victim, who has nearly made a full recovery now. Were anyone else to be injured, I’m sure BHMH would willingly take them in, as would any of the county’s other excellent hospitals, but when it was just one isolated incident, which we hope it will remain, it was more practical to not take any risks. Now we know what happened to the victim and know who the perpetrators are, but it seemed unsafe and unnecessary to the hospital staff at the time to treat him there, when he could receive even better and more full-time care right in my own home.”

 

“Speaking of the hunters!” someone calls, and Derek nods for them to continue. “Why aren’t they here? We’d like to hear from them as well.”

 

“They’re actually out on a hunt right now,” Derek says. “They’ve taken this job very seriously, and are constantly out hunting, speaking to their contacts, and working on leads. I have full faith that this whole matter will soon be resolved. Christopher Argent is a seasoned hunter who’s caught countless rogue wolves and brought them to justice, and Allison is one of the best new hunters I’ve ever seen. Seeing them interact with the victim and watching how tirelessly they’re working to catch these rogue wolves, I have no doubt that they really do live up to their family’s code of protecting those who cannot protect themselves.”

 

“You keep referring to the victim as… well… _the victim_ ,” says the next reporter he calls on. “Will we ever learn this man’s name, or any details about him?”

 

“He prefers to keep his identity private,” Derek says. “I can only remind you that he lives in New York and will likely return there to be with his family when this is over.” Selfishly, Derek hates to think of Stiles returning home. “He’s twenty-one years old, just like my younger sister and the rest of my packmates.”

 

“Except Peter!” someone calls.

 

“Except Peter,” Derek says, smirking. “But he likes to think he looks twenty-one, so you better hope he’s not watching this at home.”

 

The crowd laughs, and Derek breathes a little easier.

 

“Who else?” he asks, then points to a man in red.

 

“So, what’s your relationship with this man? Is he comfortable around your betas? Or is it a… very formal situation?”

 

“We’ve all actually become good friends with him over the past few months,” Derek says. He and Stiles—and Jennifer—had agreed it was best not to mention that they were dating. It wasn’t any of the public’s business yet, and it _certainly_ wasn’t something they needed the alphas to know. “He’s very friendly, and it helps that he’s the same age as _most_ of my betas.” A few people laugh again. “We’ve bonded with him and formed a pretty good relationship with his family back home too, who we make a point of video chatting with. It’s important to us that he feels like part of the pack while he’s with us, and getting to know the people he cares about is part of that. We really have done everything in our power to make this situation easier for him.”

 

* * *

 

“Good friends,” Isaac laughs, elbowing Stiles from his spot beside him on the couch. Peter is sitting on Stiles’ other side as they watch the press conference together. “That’s one way of putting it.”

 

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters, elbowing him back. “That answer was sweet.”

 

The TV focuses in on a new reporter, who says, “Now if I could just bring this back around to the Argents… Is it at all possible that your family’s history with them could be the reason this investigation is taking so long?”

 

The camera focuses back on Derek, whose face is suddenly closed off.

 

“I see what you’re implying, but no. That is not at all possible. These things take time.”

 

“But-”

 

“No,” Derek says more firmly, and Jennifer raises an eyebrow from behind him. “I don’t wish to discuss past events any further today.”

 

Another reporter speaks up without being called on, and the cameras go to him despite Derek’s protests in the background.

 

“Alpha Hale, with all due respect to both families, don’t you think it’s possible the Argents are holding up the hunt as retribution for the results of the fire?”

 

“No, I don’t. There will be no further discussion of the fire.”

 

Stiles notices Isaac and Peter meeting eyes over his head, but he’s busy staring at the screen.

 

_What fire?_

 

“Wouldn’t it be wise to call in the Calaveras?” the reporter continues, apparently unperturbed by the dark look on Derek’s face. “Don’t you think Christopher Argent might be stalling as a way of getting even for the deaths of his family members? Of his wife?”

 

“ _No_ , and-”

 

“It’s no secret there’s been a lasting resentment between the Hale Pack and the Argents since the fire, wouldn’t-”

 

“Remove him,” Derek snaps, and Stiles watches in shock as his eyes glow bright red.

 

Isaac is scrambling for the remote now, but Stiles grabs his arm, staring at the TV as two large men step off the stage and stalk over to the reporter. They begin to escort the man away, and the cameras go back to Derek for a reaction.

 

“That will be all for today,” Derek says. He takes a deep breath, and his eyes fade back to green. “No further questions.”

 

Stiles watches in utter confusion as Derek steps away from the podium and strides off the stage, the cameras following him till he and a few security guards reach the cars. Jennifer fills the screen moments later, and she’s saying something biting but professional to the reporters about mentioning ‘the fire’. Stiles releases Isaac, who finally flicks off the TV.

 

After a long moment, Stiles asks, "What the hell just happened?”

 

“Wait for Derek to get back,” Isaac says, looking nervously to Peter. Much like Derek, his face has gone void of emotion. “It’s not my place to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Secrets do tend to come back to bite you in the ass...
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts <3


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly me didn't realize what an insane burden moving out of my childhood home would be for _weeks_ to come. Well, here's this. I'm afraid to say _now_ updates should be back to normal--clearly I tend to jinx myself. 
> 
> Warning for super brief mention of suicidal thoughts.

Derek slams the front door shut behind him as he enters the house. No one is in the living room, and he’s glad they cleared out. He doesn’t want to see any of them right now. He takes off his suit and flings it onto the couch on his way past. He stalks up the stairs and throws the door to his room open with one hand, pulling at his tie with the other. He only gets a step in before he sees Stiles sitting in his computer chair. Derek knows he’s not lucky enough that he’s been here the whole time and missed the press conference.

 

“Go away.”

 

“When was there a fire?” Stiles counters.

 

“Go _away_.”

 

Stiles crosses his arms, sitting up straighter.

 

“No.”

 

“Fine,” Derek says, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. He unlaces one shoe, then the other, and tosses them into a corner. “Stay here, then.”

 

He gets up and starts for the door, but Stiles catches him by the shoulder. Derek grudgingly allows himself to be spun around.

 

“Tell me,” Stiles insists. “You’ve seen me at my worst. Whatever it is… I’ll understand.”

 

“You won’t,” Derek says, but a part of his resolve crumbles. He _has_ already seen the most vulnerable parts of Stiles. It’s not fair for him to keep repressing this. And it’ll come out eventually. Plus, Stiles could—and knowing how curious he always is, _would_ —just look it up, anyway. “That wasn’t your fault.”

 

“And this fire was yours?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek says bitterly.

 

“Please tell me,” Stiles says again, voice softer now. “It’s not good to keep things bottled up.”

 

“It’s not bottled up, the whole fucking world knows except for you,” Derek huffs. “Honestly, I was a little surprised you didn’t recognize me. But you were young at the time. Your father should have, though.”

 

“My dad? Why would my dad know who you are? Did you… start a fire?”

 

“Might as well have.”

 

“What does that _mean_? And what do the Argents have to do with it?”

 

Derek takes a deep breath, which does little to calm him, and relents.

 

“Do you know the name Kate Argent?”

 

A little bit of recognition flickers in Stiles’ eyes.

 

“You know, I thought I recognized the name Argent when I met Chris. But Hale… I really don’t know. Who _are_ you guys?”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“You were young. _I_ was young. But it was big news all across the country. Nine years ago, in September.”

 

“My mom died in August, that year,” Stiles says, biting his lip. “I was busy mourning. Dad was busy drinking. Maybe Melissa was vaguely aware, but when she wasn’t working overtime at the hospital she was practically raising me and Scott for a while there. No one was really keeping up on the news in our houses.”

 

Derek feels selfish, suddenly. Stiles has been through a _lot_. It’s not like he’s the only one who’s struggled.

 

He sighs, resigning himself to telling the story.

 

“Come sit down,” he says, sitting back on the edge of the bed.

 

He drags his feet up so they’re on his bedframe, and Stiles sits next to him a few inches away, giving him some space.

 

“You can call me biased, but for a long time, hunters were bad people,” Derek starts, already feeling drained. “Back before the war, before werewolves came to power, before people even really _knew_ about us, hunters were there, and they wanted blood.” He shrugs. “That’s just the way it was. They originated in France. The Argents were one of the very first hunting families. The Maid of Gévaudan was actually an Argent by marriage, if they forced you to learn about her in school. They’re also one of the most _vicious_ hunting families. They hated werewolves from the beginning. They pretended to accept us after the war, but clearly not all of them did. The family is usually led matriarchically, but Gerard Argent’s wife died after having his two children. Chris and Kate.” His stomach roils even thinking about her. “Gerard always hated werewolves, but he was very good at putting on a show. He had no trouble making himself seem like an innocent old man who only wanted justice. We knew it was a façade, but it’s better for public relations if you just pretend to get along.

 

“If anyone hated werewolves more than him, it was Kate. And she was also the only one better at hiding it. So good,” he says through gritted teeth, “that I started _dating_ her when I was in high school. So good that when she told me she hated hunting and didn’t want to go into it like the rest of her family, I believed her.” He heaves a heavy sigh, and grimaces. “So _good_ , that when she asked how my family protects ourselves from attack, I just- _told_ her. I actually _told_ a hunter, from a family _known_ for their hatred of werewolves, every precaution we have in place. I thought she was just… curious. I don’t- It was so _stupid_. I mean, people like the Argents were the exact _reason_ we had those kinds of safety features in the first place.”

 

Stiles swallows hard.

 

“What did she do?”

 

“Circled the house in mountain ash. Closed off every tunnel with it too. Every secret passageway. And set the whole house on fire. The basement was the only thing that didn’t burn, because it’s so far down, and the fire started on top. Didn’t matter though. She had sealed it off, because that’s where most of the tunnels were.”

 

Stiles has gone very pale.

 

“And… people were inside?”

 

Bile burns at the back of Derek’s throat, hot and biting. This is the first time in a long time he’s had to talk about this.

 

“My whole family, except me, Cora, and Laura.”

 

“Laura?” Stiles prompts gently.

 

“My other sister. That’s- a story for another time.”

 

Stiles nods quickly, letting it drop.

 

“Was Peter…?”

 

“Inside?” Derek scrubs roughly at the back of his neck. He hopes Peter isn’t sitting somewhere listening. “Yes.”

 

“But he made it out,” Stiles offers.

 

Derek casts his eyes away, shaking his head.

 

“They had to _drag_ him out. He was horribly burned. Passed out from smoke inhalation. Went into a coma for years. His wife and three daughters died in the fire. If he ever seems hostile these days…”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles says, voice low. “God, Derek, I’m so sorry.”

 

“My parents died too,” Derek goes on, ignoring the apology. Stiles shouldn’t be sorry, not for him. He feels very numb now. “Both of them. And it was my fault. Cora disappeared for years. That was complicated, too. We thought she died in the fire. She still won’t really talk about what happened then. We know she ended up in South America with another pack, but… We don’t know why. She thought we were dead, and we thought she was dead. She was really little. Just a kid. I think she felt all those pack bonds snap and just- ran. Maybe she saw the fire. She doesn’t like to talk about it. I just know she disappeared and I didn’t see her again till- Till after Laura died. So that’s what they mean when they talk about the fire. They’re asking if I was not only _stupid_ enough to get my whole family killed, but if I think by hiring the Argents to deal with this, I’m putting you in danger too.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my God,” Stiles says. He doesn’t even know where to start. “Der, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry for me,” Derek says, shaking his head. “For Cora. Peter. His family. My parents. Not me.”

 

“It was just a mistake, Derek. You couldn’t have known that-”

 

“Yes, I could have,” Derek snaps. More quietly, he says, “I _should_ have. I was so fucking stupid and _naïve_. I thought we were in _love_.” Stiles has never heard a person sound more disgusted. “She was older and beautiful and I thought I was somehow _special_ because she was interested in me. That just because she was willing to fuck me I somehow owed her something, and that cost my family their lives. Just because I didn’t _mean to_ doesn’t make any of it go away.”

 

“You couldn’t have known she was going to do that,” Stiles insists, feeling sick to his stomach. Derek messed up, sure, but Kate was clearly a cold-blooded murderer. “And she sounds _crazy_. She probably would’ve tried something like that with or without you.”

 

Derek’s expression darkens a little, and Stiles wonders if there’s something he still doesn’t know here. But Derek just doubles down on himself. 

 

“But she wouldn’t have succeeded, because I told her where _everything_ was. I thought I was- protecting her, or something. Like if something bad happened while she was around, then I knew she would be okay.” He huffs a sharp, bitter laugh. “Little did I know…”

 

He scowls, ducking his head.

 

“Fuck, Derek.”

 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah. I know. So, you can see why Peter was so worried about letting you into the house, and why we didn’t tell you about the tunnels in the basement till we thought we were under attack, and why the press thinks we might bear some grudge against the Argents, and vice versa. Because of me.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault, Derek. She was… she sounds _sadistic_. And I can’t blame him for being worried about me,” Stiles says, thinking of how much Peter’s dislike of him used to freak him out. “But… I don’t see why Allison or Chris would be mad at _you_. Their family were the ones who… Well.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, feeling sick.

 

He wants desperately to comfort Derek, but he has no idea what to say, what to do. Whether Derek wants to be touched, or left alone—though Stiles doesn’t plan to actually _leave_ , and let Derek sit here and stew in his own guilt.

 

“They would be mad because we killed them. Put them to death, whatever you want to call it. Chris’ sister, wife, and father.”

 

“Good,” Stiles says immediately.

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees quietly, finally looking back up at him. “But the thought that Chris might be… putting this whole thing with you off as revenge, is…”

 

“That’s crazy, Der.”

 

“It’s not. It’s plausible.”

 

“I know her family is _awful_ , I hope they’re all burning in hell right now,” he says, then quickly realizes what awful word choice _burning_ is, and rushes to continue, “but Allison is a sweetheart. She would never do something like that, or let Chris.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“That’s what I thought about Kate. I loved her. And in retrospect, she was awful, and I guess Allison isn’t like that, but… I don’t know. There was a _reason_ I was reluctant to work with hunters when this whole thing started.

 

“Well, uh…” Stiles murmurs. “I really appreciate you doing that for me. It must’ve been hard, but you did it to protect me and that was big of you.”

 

“I couldn’t let anything else happen to you. Anyone would’ve done it.”

 

“Not true. Some alphas would’ve just kicked me off their territory or dumped me at the police station.”

 

“Haigh wouldn’t’ve done anything to help you.”

 

“And you knew that, and you took me in, and you did everything in your power to help me. You’re a good guy, Derek. You made one mistake, and it ended up having big consequences, but you’re not a bad person because of it.”

 

* * *

 

But Derek didn’t just make one mistake.

 

Derek made two very, very big mistakes, and Kate was the _second_.

 

The first was Paige.

 

Because sure, one can speculate and say Kate would’ve done it anyway, that it could’ve happened to anyone, but that’s not necessarily true. Kate said at the trial that she did what she did because the Hales were ‘rogue werewolves’, and she legally had the right to put them down.

 

That _Talia_ had the right to turn Paige if she wanted, but Derek had no right to hire someone else to do so, and that made it a crime. That Talia pardoning him and having Jennifer shield him from the spotlight was corrupt, and therefore the whole family was corrupt and unfit to rule and _rogue_.

 

And therefore, she was authorized to kill them.

 

Even the most vicious news stations didn’t buy into that, not even for a moment, and testifying like that to _Laura_ certainly didn’t do her family any favors. Werewolf trials are different, the ruling alpha acts as judge, jury, and executioner, and Laura didn’t hesitate to sentence all three Argents to death. If anything, Kate’s testimony sped the trial up.

 

But just because Kate was _legally_ wrong doesn’t mean she didn’t make a little bit of sense to the furious, self-loathing voice in the back of Derek’s mind. Of course, of _course_ , he doesn’t think his mother deserved to die for pardoning him in Paige’s death, and no one else deserved it either, not in a million years. No one except, perhaps, Derek himself.

 

Because Derek _did_ kill another person, willingly or not. Talia had the right to bite anyone she wanted, but as a beta, Derek had _no_ grounds to hire an alpha to bite an innocent girl. Paige died and it was _his_ fault, and as a hunter, Kate wanting to seek vengeance on Paige’s behalf isn’t entirely illogical. She shouldn’t have done what she did, but there were plenty of dark moments where Derek wanted to kill himself after everything with Paige, and the idea that a hunter would want to kill him, too, isn’t exactly shocking.

 

But she _didn’t_ kill him.

 

She killed his family, adults and children alike, and if anyone didn’t deserve it, it was a pack like the Hales.

 

His mother was a good alpha, a good woman. His father was always loving, caring, strong. Peter’s wife was sweet and bright; their daughters were adorable. Peter was charismatic and sharp, even _kind_ , back then. Cora was so _young_ , and Laura was barely an adult. None of them deserved to be punished for Derek’s sins.

 

But Kate took it upon herself to wipe them out, her family against his, hunters against werewolves like it’s always been. Except this time, it was Derek’s fault. Not just because he gave Kate the means to do it, but because he gave her a _reason_. And the last thing Stiles needs is to hear _that_ , to find out that, just like his captors, Derek has blue eyes. Well-deserved ones. He remembers Stiles talking about it early on, how every ‘blue-eyed freak’ should be handed over to the hunters to be dealt with. Slowly.

 

So, it’s not exactly something Derek is going to share, especially when he’s already feeling this drained.

 

The fire was Derek’s fault, and if Stiles had all the facts, he would agree. It’s that simple.

 

* * *

 

“Derek,” Stiles prompts gently, when he doesn’t get an answer. “You’re not a bad person, okay? You took me in and protected me and your past doesn’t define you. _Okay_?”

 

Derek gives a long, deep sigh.

 

“Do you want to lay down?”

 

Stiles wants to sigh, too.

 

He wants Derek to agree with him, but it’s not the time to push. He’ll just have to show him he means it by cuddling the hell out of him.

 

“Yeah, c’mon,” Stiles says quietly, scooting back onto the bed and lying down, his back against the wall. “Come here.”

 

“Little spoon?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yup,” Stiles says, wiggling his outstretched fingers. “What, you’re too manly to be cuddled?”

 

Derek gives a little smirk, and it’s the first positive emotion Stiles has seen yet, which is a win, even if he’s being laughed at.

 

Instead of answering, Derek lays down too, and Stiles wraps strong arms around him.

 

They lay in silence for a while, and the tension slowly drains from Derek’s body, his shoulders, back, legs all melting against Stiles. After a long while Derek seems to be drifting towards sleep, and even though Stiles’ bottom arm is tingling, he doesn’t move an inch.

 

He’ll gladly hold Derek as long as he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought! <3
> 
> Also, I'm debating showing things like a glimpse at the trial, or Chris commenting on all of this. Lemme know if you have any strong feelings there.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Make sure you've read last week's update.

Derek wakes up feeling warm and cozy.

 

In his sleepy state, it takes him a moment or two to work out that there are arms wrapped firmly around him, and that those arms belong to Stiles.

 

That sends everything flooding back really fast.

 

Derek squeezes his eyes more tightly shut for a moment, collecting himself. He should just enjoy this. Today has been a lot, and when was the last time he got to lay with someone like this?

 

Shit. When _was_ the last time he got to lay with someone like this?

 

Paige always loved curling up in _his_ arms, and Kate certainly wasn’t interested in cuddling. He hasn’t had a bedmate, let alone a significant other, since then. The last time he was held like this was… probably by his mother when he was a child.

 

There’s something oddly comforting in that, and it only adds to the feeling that Stiles is _safe_ and _home_ and _pack_.

 

When Stiles feels him starting to shift, he presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder blade.

 

“Hey, big guy,” he murmurs. “You were out a while, so I texted Boyd to pick up dinner from that Italian place you love. You want him to bring some up here for us?”

 

Derek glances back out of the corner of his eye, to see Stiles smiling warmly at him.

 

He nods, and Stiles kisses him again.

 

* * *

 

Allison arrives to do some training at two o’clock the next day.

 

What’s unusual is that Chris arrives with her.

 

He normally stays home unless he has something important to talk about.

 

Allison smiles at Derek when he opens the door, getting a little more used to being around him, but Chris looks grim. To be fair, that might just be his resting expression. Derek can’t exactly judge.

 

“Hello, Allison,” Derek says, stepping aside to let her in. “Chris.”

 

“Alpha Hale,” Chris greets, following his daughter inside. “How are you?”

 

“Good,” Derek says. To Allison, he adds, “Stiles is looking for his shoes. He should join you out back in a few minutes.”

 

She nods, and gives her father a nervous smile before heading off.

 

“So,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is something wrong?”

 

Chris gives a wry smile.

 

“Something has to be wrong for me to stop by?”

 

A bitter, fleeting thought passes through Derek’s mind, something about Argents in his house usually not being a _good_ thing, but he would never say that to Chris.

 

“You tell me,” Derek says. “What’s the occasion, then?”

 

“Is there somewhere we can sit?”

 

Derek frowns.

 

“The kitchen?” he suggests. He doesn’t exactly feel comfortable chilling out on the couch with the guy. “Peter made lasagna earlier.”

 

Chris shrugs, and Derek starts down the hall.

 

“Didn’t picture Peter as much of a cook,” Chris says idly.

 

“Didn’t think you thought about Peter much.”

 

“I don’t,” Chris says. He takes a seat at the wooden table when Derek motions toward it. “That’s fair.”

 

“Well, Peter does a lot of the cooking,” Derek says. “Most of it, actually, although Stiles does a good amount now too. So… lasagna?”

 

“No, thanks,” Chris says, waving him off. After a moment, he adds, “I’d take whiskey or something, if you have.”

 

“Peter keeps some good wine,” Derek offers, reaching above the fridge.

 

Chris laughs.

 

“Learning a lot about Peter today. Not like he can even drink it.”

 

“He has some wolfsbane-spiked Champagne, straight from France, but that’s for _special_ occasions,” Derek says, using a claw to remove the cork. Chris doesn’t bat an eye. “But this is the regular stuff. Not trying to kill you.”

 

“Appreciate it,” Chris says.

 

This is possibly the most awkward interaction Derek has ever had.

 

Stiles enters the kitchen, then, headed for the back door to see Allison.

 

He barely gets in a, “Hey Der. Hey Mr. Argent,” before he’s outside and gone.

 

Derek wishes he had someone else from the pack here. He pours the wine into a mug— _classy_ —because he has no idea where Peter keeps wine glasses, and he probably wouldn’t want Chris drinking from them anyway.

 

“Thanks,” Chris says, taking a swig as soon as Derek sets the cup down. Now that Derek is close to him, he can tell Chris is _already_ a little drunk. Not enough to be off his guard, but more vulnerable than Derek has ever seen him. He can’t blame the guy; everyone needs a break sometime. But that still doesn’t explain why Chris is drunk in _his_ house. “So. How _is_ Peter lately?”

 

Derek doesn’t even bother hiding his confusion.

 

“He’s… alright,” he says slowly. “He’s not suspicious of Stiles anymore, so that’s a good thing. They just snark at each other.”

 

“What about before that?”

 

“Uh… Okay, I guess.” It’s not really Chris’ business that being around Peter has become significantly more pleasant to be around lately. “…Why?”

 

“Just curious,” Chris says. He’s telling the truth, too. “What about your little sister?”

 

“Cora’s alright,” Derek says, giving Chris an odd look. “All the betas are doing well.” Starting to get concerned, he adds, “Listen, Chris. Is something going on?”

 

Chris downs the entire mug of wine in three swift chugs. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then drags his hand over his gray scruff. For the first time, Derek really notices how much _older_ he looks these days. He used to be young and attractive like Kate, and he’s still handsome enough, but he looks like he’s aged a good twenty-five years in the last ten.

 

“Saw that press conference yesterday,” he says finally. “Allison showed me.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says, unsure what else there _is_ to say.

 

“You know we’re not purposely…?”

 

“Of course. You were always reasonable about- everything.”

 

Chris laughs cynically.

 

“Gerard didn’t seem to think I was being so reasonable. Either you go against your family at the most crucial moment, or you stick with them and you’re just as bad.”

 

Derek really, really does not understand why Christopher Argent is sitting in his kitchen reminiscing about his dead family. Really, really, _really_ , does not understand.

 

“I think you did the right thing,” Chris says suddenly.

 

Derek blinks at him.

 

“You and Laura. The sentence. I don’t… like it. But. I get it.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice low. “Well, I’m sorry about-”

 

Chris slowly shakes his head, smirking.

 

“No. No, you’re not.” He folds his arms on the table, and looks at Derek seriously. “You never were, and you never will be. And that’s a good thing. If you were still harboring some attachment to Kate, I’d be a little worried.”

 

Derek has no idea what to say to _that_ , but just then Peter comes down the hall and enters the kitchen.

 

“Well, well, I thought I smelled a hunter,” he says. He stays in the doorframe, arms crossed, so Chris has to look over his shoulder to see him. “Normally I get a warning.”

 

“I told you Allison was coming,” Derek says, taking the seat across from Chris.

 

This is probably the first time Peter has seen him in person him since before the fire, and Derek has no clue why he didn’t just leave the house like usual.

 

“True, but you didn’t tell me Christopher here would be holing up in our kitchen.”

 

“It was a surprise visit,” Chris mutters.

 

“Maybe I should go, then,” Peter says coolly. “The last surprise visit we got from the Argents didn’t go too well for me.”

 

Chris drags a hand over his stubble and pours some more wine.

 

“We were just talking about that,” he mutters darkly. “I’m not sure if you want to stick around.”

 

“Saw the press conference, then,” Peter says, finally entering the kitchen. He doesn’t sit down with the two of them, instead leaning against the counter. “Don’t you worry about me, Christopher. Your _words_ won’t do any more damage than your lovely little family already has.”

 

Chris takes a long draw of his drink. It’s very clear he wishes he had something stronger.

 

“I know. I’m here to apologize.”

 

“Now, when I said your words can’t do much damage, perhaps you didn’t get that they can’t do much _good_ , either.”

 

“Peter-”

 

“You know what might help?”

 

“ _Peter_.”

 

And it’s Derek this time, because nothing _good_ is ever said in that tone of voice.

 

“If I went out in the yard, and just…”

 

“She’s not part of this,” Chris says, expression darkening.

 

“Why, can’t stand to lose one more family member? I lost _eight_.”

 

Eight. That includes Laura.

 

“That wasn’t Allison’s fault. She was a _child_.”

 

“So were _my_ daughters. Children. When they died in a fire started by _your_ family. What was it Victoria said at the trial? Something about wiping out a whole bad lot at once? Maybe we should’ve followed your family’s example.”

 

Peter looks ready to drop his fangs at any second, and Chris probably has ten weapons up his sleeve.

 

Fuck.

 

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, tearing his eyes away, much to Derek’s relief. “I’m _sorry_.”

 

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” Peter snaps. “Especially not ten years later. Then again, I guess I wasn’t around to apologize to for a while there. _My bad_.”

 

“I am _sorry_ ,” Chris says again, teeth gritted. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how I could possibly understand what you went through. I don’t know how I could ever even begin to make it up to you. But I am _trying_. Allison is here every other day teaching Stiles. I’m working as hard as I ever have on any case. We want to make amends. We don’t want to _be_ like our family. I can never give you yours back, but I am trying my _hardest_ to protect your new pack, and Allison and I are putting our lives on the line working on this case. And I know it’s not good enough, but- That’s all I can _do_ , Peter. What else can I do?”

 

Peter is glaring hard at Chris, fists clenching and unclenching. Derek stays very still, very quiet. He doesn’t want to have to break anything up, but Chris doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight.

 

“Nothing,” Peter bites out. “There is nothing you can do, _ever_ , aside from leaving my family the hell alone after this. Unless you can bring my daughters, my wife, back from the grave, then nothing you do will _ever_ be good enough. Understand?”

 

And Chris, always gruff, always strong, always ready for a fight, hangs his head.

 

“I do.”

 

Peter takes a long, deep breath.

 

“Good,” he says. “ _Good_.”

 

And then he’s storming back out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

 

Chris glances at Derek, pained.

 

Yeah.

 

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry about that,” Derek starts. “He’s not-”

 

“Don’t,” Chris says, waving a hand at him. “I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome. As far as I’m concerned, I got off easy.”

 

Secretly, Derek thinks so too. Peter never did have a chance to properly get his feelings for the Argents off his chest, and this was relatively tame.

 

“Still. He shouldn’t have said that about Allison. He would never…”

 

“Couldn’t, anyway. My house is protected.”

 

“Still. He was just angry. If you’re thinking of Laura, it’s-”

 

“Different, I know,” Chris sighs. “I’m not worried about him. I’d let him rave at me like that once a week if it made him feel better.”

 

He pours another drink, and Derek huffs a bitter laugh.

 

“I might sign up to do that too.” After a long moment, he adds, “It may not seem like it, but… we do know it’s not your fault, Chris.”

 

Chris doesn’t say anything, just downs his third or fourth mug. Derek would be a little worried about him, but Chris doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be knocked on his ass by a few glasses of wine.

 

“I mean it,” Derek says. “It’s easy to blame you, but… It’s not fair. We don’t really take into account what a toll it probably took on you.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. You were the victims, not me.”

 

“Your whole family died too,” Derek says carefully. He _does_ know he was dealt a worse lot here, but Chris has been shouldering the blame for his family’s sins for years. Derek wonders how often he sits around drinking like this—except with something much stronger, probably—thinking about how all of this could’ve been avoided if he had just _figured it out_ , if someone has just _told him_. About how he could’ve stopped himself from losing his whole family, from becoming a single parent, from becoming a pariah even though he didn’t do anything wrong. The only reason they didn’t tell Chris is that they knew he would try to put a stop to it, and yet _he’s_ the one who shoulders the blame, because he’s the only one left. “It’s not the same, but it must’ve been hard, especially with Allison.”

 

“I worry about her more than I worry about myself. I miss them sometimes, but that’s not even _close_ to being your problem. Mostly I just worry if I raised Allison right on my own, but then… I figure none of them would’ve been much help.”

 

Chris abandons his mug and just grabs the bottle, which is running low.

 

“Yeah. Well. She seems like a good kid.” She’s only a few years younger than he is, but she’ll always seem like Kate’s little niece to him. “Boyd took sociology with her last year, said she was nice. And Isaac said she was popular in high school. I think she turned out alright.”

 

“Yeah, she told me she had a class with Vernon,” Chris says. “And she didn’t turn out like her aunt, or…” He bites his lip. “Or like her mother, so I guess that’s all I can ask for.”

 

“You’re doing a good job,” Derek says, even though he doesn’t know how this turned into him comforting Chris. He just looks so… _sad_ , sitting there. And Derek has felt bad enough for himself since yesterday. “Stiles really likes her, at least.”

 

“And you really like him.”

 

“I do,” Derek says, a little uncomfortable talking with Chris, of all people, about his love life. “He’s a good guy.”

 

“Yeah,” Chris says, finishing off the bottle. “I’m glad you’ve finally got something good, Hale. Allison and I are going to protect him. You’ve got my word.”

 

* * *

 

“Try again,” Allison says. She’s sitting on top of Stiles, pinning his arms behind his back, though she’s supporting most of her own weight. “You almost had it.”

 

“Almost had _what_? A heart attack?”

 

“Ha, ha,” she says, carefully getting off him, and reaching out a hand to pull him up. “C’mon, you got me twice today! Do it _once_ more.”

 

“I’m pretty sure you let me do that,” Stiles grumbles, but he allows her to pull him to his feet.

 

“I never let someone win,” Allison says, grinning. “I’m more skilled, but you’re faster than me with a weapon. Speed is important.”

 

“Yeah, except I’ll never be faster than a werewolf.”

 

“But you _can_ be more skilled. So let’s go again.”

 

“Seriously, I think I’m done for the day,” Stiles sighs. “Is that okay?”

 

Allison gives a small, indulgent smile.

 

“Of course, Stiles. I’m not trying to torture you, I’m just trying to prepare you.”

 

“To get re-kidnapped,” Stiles grumbles, plunking down next to a tree.

 

“Don’t say that,” she says, sitting next to him.

 

“Why? It’s true.”

 

“Not necessarily. Hunters are trained to prepare for the worst. So that’s what we’re doing. It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

 

“But it could. It might.”

 

“Anything _could_ happen.”

 

“But do you think it will?” Stiles asks, afraid to hear her answer, but needing to. “You probably have more information than I do. I don’t know how much Derek is telling me, or how much you’re telling him. But I’ve gotten, like, _no_ news.”

 

“Sometimes no news is good news.”

 

“Allison.”

 

She sighs.

 

“Honestly? I don’t know, Stiles. We’ve had so many false leads. No one knows who these people are or how they operate, and Dad and I are _really_ digging.”

 

“What about _you_?” Stiles asks. “Aside from work, aside from hunting, aside from everything. Just. As a person. You think they’ll come back for me?”

 

“I wish I knew. All I can tell you is… If they do? You _will_ come out the other side. I dunno if I should really say this, and maybe it’s obvious, but Dad is _invested_ in this. He always takes our cases seriously, but this is… I mean, he hasn’t said this, but I think he definitely sees is as a way to redeem ourselves. Not that he thinks we can fix anything, or that Derek will forgive us, but just that… It’s something we can _do_ , you know? Our family took away everyone Derek loved, and everyone who loved him, but now he has you. And we wanted to help you as an individual, obviously, and even if you break up we’d work just as hard, but… It’s like a bonus, I guess. We get to help you, and Derek’s life will finally be kind of good again. You know?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly. “I feel kind of selfish, to tell you the truth. Derek actually… didn’t tell me about the whole fire situation until that conference yesterday. Like, it’s such a big part of his life and who he is, and he’s been dealing with all my problems, and I didn’t even know about this huge thing that’s been hanging over his head for years.”

 

“I don’t think he meant to keep it from you,” Allison says, setting a hand on Stiles’ knee. “I think he just didn’t want to take the spotlight away from your problems by dredging all of that up, especially before you were dating. And then once you were, there’s really no good time to mention a thing like that.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just keep wishing I knew earlier, because it’s _such_ a big part of who he is now. I’m glad I know now, though, even if I didn’t learn about it in the best way.”

 

“Yeah,” Allison says, glancing away. “Dad felt really bad about that. I think he’s actually in there talking to Derek about it right now.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. It’s been weighing on him for a long time, and these last few months are really the only opportunity he’s had where Derek would willingly speak to him, so. He figured he should finally do it.”

 

“That why we’re sitting out here?”

 

“Yeah, I’ve gotta drive him home after.”

 

“And here I was, thinking we were just bonding,” Stiles says, elbowing her lightly.

 

“Hey, I’m always free to just hang out. Well. Unless I’m working on the case. Why don’t I take you out one of these days? I’m meeting my friend Lydia for brunch on Sunday, if you’d want to come.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, biting his lip. “I, uh. Actually. Don’t go out.”

 

“What, ever?”

 

“Uh… Not really, no. Not since all of this started.”

 

“You _never_ go places?”

 

“The furthest I’ve been is out here to practice with you.”

 

“Wow,” Allison says. “Well no _wonder_ the alphas haven’t come back, they probably don’t want to just break into Derek’s house.”

 

“Oh, good. I’ll just live here my whole life then.”

 

“Sure,” Allison says, falsely lighthearted. “Just marry him, settle down. Bam. You’re good.”  

 

“Gee, you guys can get off the case right now.”

 

Allison laughs.

 

“Wouldn’t that be nice? But seriously, Stiles. It’ll all be okay. Me and Dad and Derek and the Hales are all here for you. Nothing bad is going to happen. And if worse does come to worst? We’ll kick their asses. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on tumblr suggested there be some Chris/Peter in this fic in honor of Chris Argent Week, and while I couldn’t really do that based on their lack of interaction prior to this, I figured I could at least put them in the same scene. It was originally gonna just be Peter passive-aggressively snarking at Chris, but then this happened instead. This is basically the embodiment of when Peter says, “ _Let’s get angry!”_
> 
> Let me know what you thought! <3


	42. Chapter 42

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Stiles says, setting a plate of French Toast in front of Derek.

 

“Are you buttering me up with this?”

 

“Is that a toast pun? Cause I _love_ it.”

 

Stiles grins as he sits down across from Derek. It’s just the two of them this morning.

 

“Do I _seem_ like I make intentional toast puns?”

 

“Nah, you’re not that fun,” Stiles says, sticking his tongue out before shoving a bite of his breakfast in his mouth.

 

“ _Charming_ ,” Derek says, even though Stiles really does look adorable. His hair is still a little mussed from bed, he’s wearing one of Derek’s old T-shirts because he didn’t feel like going back to his room this morning, and somehow he’s got a little fleck of syrup right by his eyebrow.

 

“Always am.”

 

Derek smirks when Stiles reaches out a foot under the table, playfully running it up his leg.

 

“So, what was this favor you wanted to ask me?”

 

“Not a favor, just a question.”

 

“Shoot,” Derek says, picking up one of his strawberries.

 

“Well,” Stiles says slowly. “I was talking to Allison the other day while you were talking to Chris.”

 

“And?”

 

“She invited me to brunch.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

“I hope that’s not a date.”

 

Stiles laughs.

 

“Yeah, no, I don’t think you have anything to worry about with her. She doesn’t like me like that, and I could never date someone who’s knocked me on my ass that many times. Besides, you’re too cute to ever cheat on.”

 

“Appreciate it,” Derek says dryly. “So, what’s your question?”

 

“Well, I don’t want to say, _Can I go?_ But uh. Can I?”

 

“Where is it?” Derek asks. He doesn’t feel comfortable with Stiles going, of course he doesn’t, but he doesn’t want him to feel trapped at home either. “Her house?”

 

“Uhh… I don’t think so? Probably at a café or something. I don’t really do brunch, but I doubt it’s at her place.”

 

“This conversation is making me feel creepily like your father.”

 

“Look, I’m not asking _permission_ ,” Stiles says. “I’m just… asking how you feel about it. If it’s okay with you, if you think it’s safe, how you think it could be safer. What do you think?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“I don’t know, Stiles. Obviously I don’t want you to go, but I don’t want you to go stir-crazy from sitting around the house 24/7 either.”

 

“So…?”

 

Derek honestly has no idea what to say. He’s terrified of Stiles putting himself in danger, but he doesn’t want to keep him locked up here all day.

 

“Please tell me you see my conflict between not wanting to be the crazy, controlling boyfriend, and not wanting you to get hurt.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. And if you say you _really_ don’t want me to go, I’ll respect that. But as much as I love the pack, I really do wish I could get out once in a while, you know? It’s hard being cooped up all the time.”

 

“It’s okay if you want to go,” Derek says, even if it doesn’t _feel_ okay. “But… how would you feel about me coming along?”

 

Stiles squints at him.

 

“You want to come to brunch with Allison?”

 

“No. And I’m not trying to intrude. I think it’s really good that you’re making friends here. But what if I went and hung out next door or something? Or waited in my car? Just to make… absolutely _sure_ nothing happens because I’m not around. I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go out alone and something happened the very first time.”

 

“That sounds fair,” Stiles says. “Maybe someone from the pack can even come with us, if it would make you feel better. Isaac seemed to get along pretty well with her last time. Maybe he could eat with us, and you could… wait outside?”

 

“Okay,” Derek agrees, if a bit hesitantly. “That seems good. The French Toast definitely helped.”

 

Stiles beams at him.

 

* * *

 

“This is so weird,” Stiles says, buckling himself into the front seat of Derek’s Camaro. “It feels like a thousand years since I’ve been in a car. I miss my Jeep.”

 

“You have a Jeep?” Isaac asks from the back seat.

 

“Yup. Baby blue, and she’s my baby.”

 

“Sounds nice.”

 

“It’s getting really old, but I love it. Half of it’s held together with duct tape and the sheer force of my will at this point, but I’m never gonna give Roscoe up.”

 

“Roscoe?” Derek asks as he pulls out of the driveway. “I thought it was a girl.”

 

Erica scoffs.

 

“It’s a _car_ , Derek.”

 

“Roscoe is not just a car!” Stiles defends. “She’s my _baby_.”

 

“Okay, weirdo,” she says, putting her hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean to offend your only child.”

 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at her in the rearview mirror.

 

* * *

 

“This honestly feels surreal,” Stiles says, as Derek pulls into a parking lot outside the café. “It’s so normal that it’s weird.”

 

“Well, you deserve a little normalcy,” Isaac says. “And I deserve some good pancakes. So let’s get going.”

 

“Wait,” Derek says. “Just remember. I’ll be right next door at the bookstore. Isaac, Erica, if you see or hear or smell anything remotely suspicious, you _howl_. Immediately. Understand?”

 

“I think our tiny minds can grasp the concept,” Erica says cheerfully, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “Between the two of us and the hunter chick, I think he’ll be okay in the five seconds before you get here.”

 

“Hopefully you don’t have to get here,” Stiles mutters. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Derek says, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “Be safe.”

 

“Will do,” Stiles says, leaning in to give him a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

 

“I love you too, Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

“Guess we’re here first,” Isaac says, sticking his hands in his pockets as he glances around the restaurant. “Let’s get you a booth.”

 

“Sounds good, man,” Stiles says. “And damn, it _smells_ good in here.”

 

“We don’t get to appreciate it, Derek has us on the lookout for _suspicious_ smells,” Erica says, winking. “But I’m sure it’s nice.”

 

They stop next to a table, and Isaac spreads his hands.

 

“Let’s sit while we wait. Stiles, you want the window, or the aisle?”

 

“I dunno,” Stiles says. “By the aisle I could be so easily snatched and dragged out the door. By the window, anyone could shatter the glass and yank me out. Seems very dangerous.”

 

“Maybe we should just go home,” Isaac says lightly. “I hear these brunch places are rife with crime.”

 

Before any of them actually get to sit down, Allison walks through the door, talking animatedly with a strikingly beautiful redhead.

 

“Stiles!” she calls, cutting off whatever she was saying to the girl who must be Lydia. She gives one of her bright, happy smiles as she reaches them. “And Erica, Isaac, hi! Stiles told me you’d be coming. Guys, this is my best friend Lydia.”

 

“Hello,” Lydia says, looking each of them up and down. “How nice to meet three Hales.”

 

“Oh, I’m not a- I mean, I’m just… I don’t think Derek considers me-” He looks nervously at Isaac, who’s busy smirking at Erica. “I’m just a Stilinski, I guess?”

 

Lydia tilts her head.

 

“Stiles _Stilinski_?”

 

“It’s a nickname.”

 

Lydia shrugs, sticking out a hand for him to shake.

 

“I figured. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Stiles.” She turns to Isaac, shaking his hand too, and then Erica. “And you _are_ Hales. Nice to meet you two, too.”

 

“Likewise,” Isaac says. “Well, it was nice seeing you guys. Erica and I are just gonna...”

 

He jerks his thumb behind him.

 

“Oh, leaving so soon?” Allison asks, frowning.

 

“We’re supposed to sit in the booth behind you and creepily stare at the back of Stiles’ head,” Erica explains, tousling his hair.

 

“You guys can sit with us if you want,” Stiles offers, swatting her hand away. “Not if you keep doing _that_ though.”

 

“Nah, we’re okay,” Isaac says. “This is your thing, we’re just here to make sure you don’t die.”

 

“Try to keep up that optimism,” Stiles says, shaking his head as he slides into his booth.

 

“Will do,” Isaac says, giving him a mock salute. “C’mon, Er.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Lydia says, leafing through her menu. “How’re you adjusting to life in Beacon Hills?”

 

“It’s… good,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Good as it can be, I guess, with the circumstances.”

 

Lydia doesn’t offer some lame apology about what happened, and Stiles kind of appreciates it. Instead, she says, “That’s fair. I hear this is the first time you’ve really been out on the town.”

 

“Yeah. Derek doesn’t really love the idea of me being out and about, as you can probably tell. That’s alright, though. I wasn’t too eager to go out, either. If Allison hadn’t invited me, I’m not sure when I would’ve _ever_ left the house.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you came,” Allison says. “If I can tell you a little secret, Dad’s as paranoid as Derek. He’s sitting in his car down the block like a weirdo. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble today, and if we do, those guys are _in for it_.”

 

“That… actually kind of makes me feel better,” Stiles admits. “But c’mon, no more talk about that. What’re you guys gonna order?”

 

“Anything I want,” Lydia hums, looking pleased. “Sunday is my cheat day.”

 

“You’re on a diet?”

 

It’s none of his business, but Lydia really doesn’t look like she needs to be.

 

“Not a diet. I will not fall prey to society’s desire to turn girls into miserable Barbie dolls who feel like they can’t ever eat what they want. Just generally trying to eat healthy for _me_. Except Sundays.”

 

“Because Sundays are brunch days,” Allison singsongs, dimples looking adorable as she smiles.

 

It kind of reminds him of Scott.

 

Before Stiles can ask what she’s planning to have, then, the waitress comes over.

 

“You girls ready? I see you’ve got some company today.”

 

“Marta, this is Stiles,” Allison says, patting his hand. “We figured we’d take him to our favorite place in town.”

 

“Well look at you, out with two beautiful women,” Marta says, winking at Stiles. “I hope you’re treating.”

 

“Oh, um-”

 

“I am, actually,” Allison interjects. “It’s kind of a special occasion.”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to-” Stiles starts, but she waves a hand at him.

 

“ _I’m_ paying.”

 

“My, my, you _are_ lucky,” Marta says, grabbing a pencil from behind her ear. “So, what do you wanna eat?”

 

“I’ll take the crepes with… strawberry jam and Nutella, and…” she hums, “chocolate drizzled on top, but no powdered sugar, please.”

 

“Gotcha,” Marta says, scribbling it down. “Lydia?”

 

“Chocolate chocolate-chip pancakes sound amazing today,” she says, scanning the list of toppings. “I’ll take those with… Allison, you’ve got me craving strawberries, so I’ll have those on top with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.”

 

“And you?” the waitress says, turning to Stiles.

 

“What Lydia’s having sounds _super_ good, so I think I’m gonna steal her order, but make it a double stack, please.”

 

“And I thought I was eating a lot,” Lydia laughs.

 

“Deaton, uh… wants me to gain a few more pounds,” Stiles murmurs, and her lips thin as she nods in understanding.

 

“Well, I think that’s all for now, Marta,” she says, gathering the menus and passing them back to her. “Oh, and can I get a glass of almond milk with that?”

 

“Sure thing. Anything for you guys?”

 

“I’d take a cappuccino, actually,” Allison says. “Stiles?”

 

“I’m good with the water, thanks.”

 

“Righto,” she says, sticking her notepad in her apron. “I’ll have that out in a little bit.”

 

“Thank you, Marta,” Allison calls as she heads for the counter. “So, Stiles, what’s up with you lately?”

 

* * *

 

An employee spots Derek as soon as he walks in the door.

 

“Hello, Alpha Hale,” she calls, quickly walking over. Awesome. “How are you today?”

 

“I’m alright,” he says gruffly, sticking his hands in his pockets. “How’re you?”

 

“Me?” she asks, eyes wide. “I’m good. Really good, actually. It’s so nice to see you here.”

 

She smiles eagerly at him, and he nods awkwardly, not sure how to slip away before people notice and start crowding him.

 

“So, is there anything I can help you with?” she continues, brushing her fingers against his arm.

 

“Uh, I’m alright,” he says, taking a half step back.

 

“Are you sure? What kind of book are you looking for?”

 

“I’m really just browsing,” Derek says, glancing behind her to the many aisles of books. He can probably hide pretty easily in there, though he does want to stay toward the front of the store. “But thank you.”

 

“Thank _you_ for coming by,” she says. “Let me know if you need any help.”

 

“I will,” he says, side-stepping her. “Thanks again.”

 

“No problem!” she calls, staring after him as he walks toward the first aisle.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a while since Derek has done much reading at all, so Boyd was excited to hear he was off to the bookstore. He instructed Derek to pick up a copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ , which he probably could’ve asked the saleswoman about, but he’ll be here a while anyway, so he may as well look around.

 

It only takes him five minutes to find it, because the mystery aisle has two whole shelves dedicated to Christie’s books, and the spines are all designed similarly, so they’re easy to spot—Boyd essentially has the same shelves in his and Erica’s room. Derek would’ve just borrowed the book from him, except Boyd has a lot of _rules_ about how to handle his books. One time, Isaac dog-eared his copy of _Les Mis_ and Boyd didn’t talk to him the whole day.

 

So as long as Derek’s here, he grabs a copy of the book, and picks up _And Then There Were None_ , too, in case he doesn’t like a story with a detective. (Even though saying so would probably _also_ be enough to warrant the silent treatment from Boyd.)

 

He takes both books and heads to the aisle with comics to pick something up for Stiles.

 

He’s there for all of three seconds before a little boy wanders over, and stops in his tracks when he spots Derek.

 

“ _Whoaaaa_ ,” he says, looking at Derek with enormous eyes. He can’t be older than seven or eight. “You’re Alpha Hale!”

 

“Uh, yeah, but… shhhhh,” Derek says. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”

 

“Why?” the kid asks in an exaggerated whisper. “Are you hiding?”

 

“No,” Derek says. How do you explain _I don’t want to talk to any of my people because I’m awful at it_ to a kid without sounding like a dick? “I just… don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”

 

“But _why_?”

 

It’s also not easy to explain that _just in case there’s a pack of rogue alphas wandering around_ , he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

 

“I have a headache,” he lies. “And I have sensitive ears. So I don’t want to talk to too many people today.”

 

“Am I bothering you?” the kid asks. 

 

And Derek doesn’t want to crush him, because he’s really little and he seems pretty excited to be talking to his alpha, so he shakes his head.

 

“No, that’s alright,” Derek says. “Do you want to help me pick out a comic book for my- friend?”

 

Yeah. No. Of all the people he can accidentally call Stiles his boyfriend in front of, some random little kid probably isn’t a good choice.

 

“Yes!”

 

 “Great,” Derek says, stepping back and nodding at the shelves. “What do you like?”

 

The kid strokes his chin and squints, like he’s thinking hard, and says, “Well I lie Batman and Spider-man and Superman and Ironman and Aquaman and Wonder Woman and Catwoman and Batwoman and-”

 

“Okay,” Derek interrupts, stifling a smirk. He can’t help but wonder if this is what Stiles was like as a kid, rambling at strangers in the comic book aisle. “Who’s your _favorite_?”

 

“They’re _all_ my favorite,” the kid says, like it’s obvious. “Who’s _your_ favorite?”

 

“I don’t have a favorite. I’m not really interested in comic books.”

 

The kids narrows his eyes.

 

“Why not? They’re the _best_. They heroes are big and strong and powerful and they protect people who need help, just like you.”

 

Derek blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re an alpha,” the kid says, like Derek is the most oblivious person he’s ever met. “Mommy says you’re protecting that- that _guy_. From the bad wolves. You are, aren’t you?”

 

Derek clears his throat.

 

“I… Yes. Of course I am. No one else is going to get hurt, and you’re too young to worry about something like that. I’m going to protect everyone.”

 

“I know,” the kid says, beaming up at him. He’s missing a front tooth. “Just like a superhero.”

 

Derek decides to pick up a few issues of Wolverine.

 

Stiles will get a kick out of it.

 

* * *

 

“So, Stiles, can I ask you something?” Lydia says, taking a sip of her milk.

 

“Yeah, what?”

 

She grabs a pen from her pen from her purse and scribbles something on a napkin. Allison’s eyes go wide when she scans the note, and she tries to snatch it from Lydia as she passes it to Stiles, to no avail. In surprisingly neat handwriting for something written on a scratchy diner napkin, it says, _Is Isaac single?_

 

Stiles glances between Lydia and the note a few times.

 

“Why?” he says finally. “Are you interested?”

 

“Not me,” Lydia says. She looks very pleased with herself. “But someone is.”

 

Allison looks like she wants to die.

 

“I am _not_ ,” she says, plucking the napkin out of Stiles’ fingers. She crumples it up and drops it in the messy remains of her crepes. “I just think he’s _nice_.”

 

“Nice- _looking_ ,” Lydia says.

 

“Don’t listen to her,” Allison says, glaring daggers at Lydia. Stiles would run for the hills if Allison looked at him like that, but Lydia just looks proud. Obviously, they’ve been best friends for a long time. “I said something nice about him _one time_ , and she got all these crazy ideas in her head.”

 

“Crazy, correct, tomato, to-mah-to,” Lydia hums. “Anyway, _is_ he?”

 

“I don’t _care_ ,” Allison insists, but she looks just as curious.

 

“Possibly the most single person I know,” Stiles says. “Always saying how Boyd and Erica aren’t allowed to be mushy around him anymore till he’s in a relationship.”

 

“Interesting,” Lydia hums, tilting her head dramatically to side-eye Allison.

 

“I’m under no delusions about my family’s relationship with the Hales, thank you very much,” she whispers, finishing off her cappuccino. “Why don’t you get yourself a boyfriend instead of getting me one?”

 

She sounds exasperated, but Stiles can tell she’s mostly kidding. They probably go through this a lot.

 

“Because I only date jerks and assholes, historically, and you usually end up happy.”

 

“Yeah, till we break up.”

 

“Relationships,” Stiles says, spreading his hands, “either end in death or break-ups.”

 

“You must be fun at parties,” Lydia says, smirking.

 

“Almost as fun as I am at brunch.”

 

“You’re fun enough to get invited for next week.”

 

“Ooh, I feel special,” Stiles teases, even though he really is happy. He already knew Allison was a sweetheart, and while Lydia has a little more bite to her, she’s really nice too. Plus, she’s a genius, so she’s pretty great to talk to. “I am the chosen one.”

 

“Nothing good ever happens to the chosen one,” Lydia says primly, taking a bite of her last pancake.

 

Stiles thinks of the alphas and how very true that is.

 

“Um, he gets free brunch,” Stiles says, pointing his fork at her. “And that makes it all worth it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else feeling hungry? Let me know what you thought, and if you have brunch tomorrow ;) Happy weekend!


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke computer. Had to wait weeks for a new one. Thought I lost all my writing. Including the end of this fic. _Did_ lose some writing. Boyfriend started college. I started college. All I do now is write essays. Long wait time between updates. You know the drill. Sorry folks.

“Wow, you guys really go all out, huh?” Stiles asks, entering the living room.

 

Erica is standing on a ladder while Boyd is perched precariously on the arm chair, which is stacked high with pillows. Between them is a banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY CORA! in big, green letters.

 

“Can you tell us if this is straight?” Erica asks, frowning as she leans back to peer at their work.

 

 

“About as straight as I am.”

 

“Hilarious,” Boyd says flatly. “But I’m going to fall down any second. Which side?”

 

“Erica’s,” Stiles says, smirking. He is hilarious, thank you very much. “Raise it at least three inches.”

 

She adjusts it accordingly, and Stiles nods.

 

“Looking good.”

 

“Great,” she says, hopping down.

 

She rushes over to Boyd and sweeps his legs out from under him, catching him seamlessly in a bridal carry as Stiles looks on with wide eyes. He knows werewolves are strong, no one knows like he does, but goddamn. That’s a weird sight.

 

Erica sees him staring and laughs. Boyd looks less amused, but also like it isn’t the first time this has happened to him.

 

“What, thought I was a wimp just cause I’m a girl?”

 

“Answer carefully,” Boyd says. He has one armed lazily draped over Erica’s shoulders now, not at all concerned that she’ll drop him. “You could be next.”  

 

“Hey, no, nope,” Stiles says, raising his hands in mock surrender and taking an exaggerated step back. “Just that he’s got like half a foot on you-”

 

“Seven inches,” Boyd cuts in.

 

“Seven inches, and he’s built. Not the easiest person for anyone to lift. I mean, he’s just… physically larger than you.”

 

“That’s just cause you’re a wimp,” Eric says, spinning in a circle. She has to readjust her grip a little, but she still looks very satisfied. “C’mon, bro. Do you even lift?”

 

Boyd scoffs.

 

“ _You_ don’t even lift.”

 

“I’m lifting you, jerk!”

 

“Yes, because pre-bite you totally could’ve done this.”

 

“Absolutely,” she declares. “And hey, Mr. Bigshot, if I did this to pre-bite _you_ , you would’ve fainted.”

 

“Being scared of girls and being scared of being dropped are two very different things.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, leaning to one side till his feet are back on the floor.

 

She lets go suddenly and Boyd stumbles a little, then whips around to glare at her.

 

Erica smiles, lips bright red as always, and blows him a kiss.

 

* * *

 

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, looking at the package Derek just brought inside. “It’s big.”

 

 _Derek’s package is big_ , he thinks to himself, amused.

 

“Shhh,” Derek says, tilting his head adorably to focus his hearing. When he apparently determines they’re alone, he says, “It’s Cora’s birthday present.”

 

“And it’s only arriving today? Tsk, Tsk, Derek.”

 

“Not my fault,” he huffs, setting the box on the coffee table as he sits next to Stiles on the couch. “The seller shipped it late. I’m glad they came though, Cora loves these things.”

 

“What are they?” Stiles asks. Derek crumbles up the tape and waves a hand at the box, letting Stiles peek inside. “Oh, dude, I love them too!”

 

The box is full of little Funko Pop figurines.

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“You don’t love them like Cora does. No one loves them like her. She has an entire wall of her room covered in shelves of them, boxes and all. It’s creepy.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Stiles says, picking up a cut-in-half zombie and wiggling it right in Derek’s face. “They’ll come for you in the night with their black, unblinking eyes.”

 

Derek grimaces and swats at Stiles’ hand.

 

“Hey!” Stiles says, pulling it away. “You’ll damage the box. Which I assume would be an issue, since… God, are _all_ of these signed?”

 

Stiles only recognizes one or two of the names, but every box seems to have a signature scrawled on it somewhere or other.

 

“Almost. That’s how she likes them.”

 

“Shit, that must have been expensive. There’s like twenty here.”

 

Derek shrugs uncomfortably.

 

“Money’s not really an issue. Besides, it’s her birthday.”

 

“Perks of being an alpha,” Stiles teases, rifling through the box. “God, some of these are really freaky.”

 

He picks up one that’s labeled Teddy Bear Girl. This one is a bloody, undead child clad in pink pajamas and holding a tiny stuffed bear. Stiles pretends to shudder.

 

“She _likes_ them,” Derek insists. “And she likes that show, too. She and Erica are pretty obsessed. So is Peter, but he likes to pretend he isn’t.”

 

“Well, Peter hates showing interest in anything.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Derek mutters. “But Cora doesn’t. Ask her to show you her collection later, I’m sure she’ll be happy to.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Fuck, this is good,” Cora moans around a mouthful of shrimp. “ _Fuuuuck_.”

 

“I’m glad,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a real present, but, uh. Enjoy.”

 

“I definitely am. Mmm.” She points her fork at him. “No apologies.”

 

“What ever happened to teaching Derek how to cook?” Isaac asks. “What are we gonna do when-” He clears his throat. “What would we do without you, Stiles?”

 

“I cook for you ingrates half the time,” Peter huffs. “I think you would survive.”

 

Stiles does not, does not, does not want to comment on what will eventually happen when the whole alphas situation is taken care of, so he just says, “Hey, I’m more than willing to teach. Ask Derek why he hasn’t asked for another lesson.”

 

“ _You_ could always cook,” Derek says to Isaac. “Just a thought.”

 

“Yeah, I _could_ cook. I just don’t want to.”

 

“Lazy bones,” Erica hums.

 

“Oh, yes, because you do so much to provide for this household.”

 

“She’s getting a job next week,” Boyd says, putting an arm around her. “What’re you doing?”

 

“Same as you,” Isaac laughs. “Nothing. And I’m loving it.”

 

“You can’t lecture him on work,” Cora adds, rubbing Isaac’s arm. “He worked the graveyard shift at an actual graveyard.”

 

“When did you work at a graveyard?” Stiles asks, frowning. “That sounds terrifying.”

 

Isaac shrugs, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

 

“There are worse things. It was back when I was a teenager. That’s actually how I met Derek.”

 

Stiles turns his confused expression on Derek.

 

“ _You_ worked at a graveyard?”

 

“A Hale working at the cemetery?” Peter laughs. “Talia never would’ve allowed it; the press would’ve had a field day. No, Derek here has never had a job.”

 

He pats Derek’s hand condescendingly.

 

“Being _alpha_ is a job,” Derek grumbles. “ _You_ never had a job.”

 

“And it’s been wonderful,” Peter says, looking pleased.

 

Derek glares.

 

“What Isaac _meant_ was that I ran into him when I was passing by the graveyard one night.”

 

“Ran into, scared into falling in an open grave…” Isaac says. “Same difference.”

 

Stiles looks at Derek, scandalized.

 

“You made him fall in a grave?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he says, at the same time as Isaac says, “ _Yes_.”

 

“An _omega_ scared him.”

 

“An omega who probably thought you were after him,” Isaac says, pointing a finger at Derek.

 

“You’re lucky he was there,” Erica says. “Your skinny ass never could’ve climbed out on your own.”  

 

Isaac sighs.

 

“I will not give him credit for that. I _will_ give him credit for offering me the bite.”

 

“Least I could do, after scaring you into an open grave,” Derek says, smirking.

 

“How did Derek end up biting you two?” Stiles asks, looking at Erica and Boyd. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

 

The two of them glance at each other for a moment before Erica shrugs.

 

“I used to have really bad seizures,” she says. “Derek was holding interviews for potential pack members. He only had Isaac at that point. My parents hated the idea, since there was obviously a stupid stigma around him, but I figured I had nothing to lose. And besides, he was cute.” She grins. “Met up with him, he saw how wonderful I was, and voila. Here I am today.”

 

“She told me her story,” Derek adds. “I thought she was nice and genuine. And a little bit of an outcast.”

 

“Gee, thanks Der.”

 

“You all were,” Derek placates. “So was I. It was nice, being around people who know what it’s like. Same with Boyd.”

 

That’s… kind of cute, honestly. Stiles is glad Derek found some people he could relate to, especially when he really needed a family.

 

“I met up with Derek two weeks after he gave Erica the bite,” Boyd says. “Fought with myself the whole way here, cause I was even quieter then than I am now, and I was half worried about him, half worried about the pretty blonde all over the news.”

 

“I prefer to think of my hair as more of a sandy color,” Isaac says, running a hand through his curls, “but thanks, hot stuff.”

 

“Shut up,” Boyd laughs. “My mom had me dress all nice, button-down and tie and everything, and these three were wearing jeans and sweatpants.”

 

“Yeah, you looked like a total douche,” Erica pipes up.

 

Boyd side-eyes her.

 

“You said you thought I looked cute.”

 

“Oh, I did. You looked amazing, with pre-bite muscles bulging under fancy clothes. But you were still a douche for showing up looking amazing when I looked like a mess.”

 

“That makeover you got after the bite had you looking like a mess? Are we remembering the same event?” Boyd asks skeptically. “You were hot and you know it. Sweats and messy ponytail or no.” He moves his hand from her chair to rub over her back, smiling warmly. “And you were just as beautiful before all that, too.”

 

“Mmm, you’re a liar, but you’re sweet,” Erica says, leaning back into his hand.

 

“Hey, my heart was steady,” he says, eyes sincere. “You’ve always been beautiful.”

 

Erica shoves his arm, a small smile on her face.

 

“Shut up,” she laughs. “You’re gonna make me blush.”

 

“And you’re gonna make me gag,” Isaac says. “The disgusting, mushy chemistry between these two should answer any questions about why Derek chose Boyd.”

 

“And because _I_ liked him,” Derek says flatly. “And so did you.”

 

“Would’ve liked him less if I knew they’d be leaving cooties all over the house.”

 

“I think werewolf healing will save you from girl germs,” Cora says, smirking.

 

“Aw, don’t worry,” Erica coos, “he’s just jealous no one will ever want to bang _him_ against the fridge.”

 

“You had _sex_ in my _kitchen_?” Derek demands, sounding like a horrified parent.

 

“Just an example,” Erica soothes, but her smirk says otherwise.

 

“That is where we _eat_ ,” Peter says, equally disgusted.

  
“Technically, the table is where we eat.”

 

Stiles can’t help cracking up at the horrified look Derek gives the table.

 

Apparently, he isn’t a _bang you on the kitchen table_ kind of guy. Good thing he has a big bed.

 

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Erica defends. “Your precious table hasn’t been sullied, don’t worry.”

 

“I think it’s reasonable to not want a bunch of teenagers having sex on my _kitchen table_.”

 

“Uh, we haven’t been teenagers in a while, Der.”

 

Derek looks even more scandalized.

 

“You did this _recently?_ ”

 

“When is the last time anyone even _cleaned_ the fridge?” Peter asks, grimacing.

 

“See!” Isaac says. “Everyone thinks I’m being mean to them when I say they’re gross, but _this_ is what I’m-”

 

“ _Anyway!”_ Cora interjects. “Shouldn’t we be singing happy birthday or something right about now?”

 

“I think we should be clearing the fridge right about now,” Derek grumbles, staring miserably across the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my God, Peter,” Cora says, glancing back and forth between him and the little Tiffany’s box in her hand. “Seriously?”

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“You were looking at similar ones when we went to the mall.”

 

“What’d he get you?” Derek asks.

 

She hadn’t looked this stunned at _his_ present.

 

Sure, she was really excited, but now she looks awestruck.

 

“These.”

 

She turns the box so they can all see, and Derek blinks.

 

It’s a pair of earrings, long and silver, with six diamonds each.

 

“Are those _real_?” he asks.

 

Peter scoffs.

 

“They’re from _Tiffany’s_ , Derek. Diamonds set in platinum. One hundred percent real.”

 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Cora says again, turning the box back towards herself.

 

“You got me a _sweater_ for my last birthday,” Derek says, looking at Peter.

 

“Can love really be measured in money?” Peter asks sagely.

 

“ _Normally_ I would say no, but...”

 

He raises an eyebrow.

 

And of course, Derek doesn’t care about the money, he could buy _many_ pairs of diamond earrings—or, uh, something manlier—if he wanted, and so could Peter and Cora, but they normally don’t make frivolous purchases like this. They would’ve all been _more_ than set for life even if the whole pack was still alive, but with the three of them splitting all the family’s millions, they’re pretty much swimming in money. And yes, he’s supporting the other betas and Stiles, now, but that really doesn’t make a dent. Nor does one pair of diamond earrings. But still, in general, they don’t _try_ to make a dent. They live very nicely, in a big house on a big plot of land, but they don’t have live-in maids and chefs and butlers like some alphas do. They don’t each have five fancy cars, and the betas all still go to college. His parents always hammered into them that it was better to have a few nice, big things like Derek’s Camaro, and a lot of money in the bank, than to throw it all away on a million other purchases. They tried not to spoil them as kids, either, and he and Cora generally try not to disrespect that by spending all the money they inherited on whatever they want.

 

It’s not like Derek’s present to Cora was _cheap_ , either, but diamond earrings are much more… showy. Where Peter got that idea, or why he suddenly decided to do something like that for her, is beyond Derek. They probably weren’t more than ten grand, but they’re a _much_ flashier present than people in their family would normally get each other. The Hales are more of a… _gift card_ for your birthday family, particularly Peter. Derek and Cora get each other nicer things because they’re closer, but Peter… Well, Peter’s never _cared_ that much before.

 

Well, that’s not true. When they were kids, he was the cool uncle who _would_ spoil them against their parents’ wishes. But in the last decade? Not a chance.

 

Like he said, even if jokingly, money doesn’t buy love. But Derek thinks it was less about the earrings and more about the gesture. Cora could’ve bought _herself_ expensive earrings if she wanted, but Peter noticed something she liked and spent good money on it. Which is much more than he usually does.

 

Did Derek mention the sweater was _mustard yellow_?

 

“Geez, Peter,” Erica says. “I didn’t get _anything_ for _my_ birthday.”

 

“We are not related,” Peter says, looking amused. “Besides. Apparently, I can’t trust you with stainless steel. You think I can trust you with platinum?”

 

Isaac laughs delightedly.

 

“Seriously, Peter, what are these about?” Cora asks. “I mean, they’re beautiful. But _why_?”

 

Peter shrugs.

 

“I missed a few birthdays. Figured it was about time I caught up.”

 

“You’re nuts,” Cora laughs, and Derek thinks she knows it’s meant as a gesture, too. “God, where am I even going to wear these?”

  
“Up to you,” Peter says. “Your mother had a pair just like them when we were young. She used to wear them on dates with your father.”

 

“Did she really?” Cora asks, a fond look taking over her face.

 

“She did. That is, until your dad managed to drop _both_ of them in a sewer. Very long story there.” He smirks. “You’re lucky any of you kids were born after that. Talia was _not_ pleased. So don’t lose them, got it?”

 

“Trust me, I’m going to be _very_ careful,” Cora says, standing. She grabs Peter in a big hug, a rare sight. Derek can’t see, but he would bet Peter looks very pleased over her shoulder. “Thank you, Peter.”

 

“Anything for my darling niece,” he says, patting her back.

 

“Damn, I need a rich uncle,” Stiles murmurs.

 

“You have a rich boyfriend,” Derek teases, snaking a hand around Stiles’ waist and pulling him close while Cora and Erica fawn over the earrings. “That’s something.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, _obviously_ I’m only with _you_ for the money, but I need rich _family_ members. Multiple sources of income, you feel me?”

 

For a split-second Derek considers making a joke about how Stiles would have rich family members if they ever got married, but thankfully decides against it. Even if he and Stiles have been spending all their time together for months now, it’s still _way_ too soon for a joke like that.

 

* * *

 

Stiles knows it’s _way_ too early to be thinking something so crazy, but honestly?

 

If he and Derek ever somehow end up married, Peter better bring a nice present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [These are Cora’s earrings.](http://www.tiffany.com/jewelry/tiffany-jazz/tiffany-jazz-graduated-drop-earrings-17662597?fromGrid=1&origin=browse&trackpdp=bg&fromcid=-1&trackgridpos=50) Imagine dropping those in a sewer... Anyway, school has started and we could probably all use some cheering up, so I hope you enjoyed this silly chapter! Tell me what you thought :)


	44. Chapter 44

“Hey, you going upstairs?” Boyd asks, as he passes Stiles coming back from the kitchen.

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“You mind letting Erica know that I’m heading to the store in a couple minutes and to text me if she needs anything? She’s not answering her phone.”

 

“Sure thing,” Stiles says, starting up the stairs. When he gets to the landing he walks down the hall to the bottom of the flight for the third floor and calls, “Erica!” She doesn’t answer. “Erica!”

 

Nope.

 

Stiles hasn’t gone upstairs yet, hasn’t had a reason to, but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to go get her himself. He realizes he’s not sure which room is Erica’s once he gets there, but he hears music coming from one, so he figures maybe that’s her and that’s why she wasn’t answering.

 

He knocks, and after a second she yells, “Yeah? Come in!”

 

Stiles opens the door, but stops dead in his tracks. Erica is sitting in the middle of a huge bed, paper towels spread all around and little pedicure spacers between her toes. Her clawed toes. Which are being painted by her clawed hands, which are all tipped with wet, blood red nail polish. The stuff is even smeared on a few of her fingers, and it’s just…

 

 _Wow_ , is it reminiscent of Kali, clawed toenails always out and fingertips stained with Stiles’ blood.

 

He barely registers that he’s staring at her, mouth hanging open, till she seems to suddenly realize her claws are on display and says, “Shit!” springing up from bed. She drops the bottle on the way, spilling even more of the deep red liquid all over her hands.

 

“It’s fine,” Stiles manages as she comes toward him, seemingly in slow motion. Vaguely, he realizes she can’t retract her claws because that would be like… _gluing_ them to the insides of her fingers, but he doesn’t care. He _doesn’t_ want them near him. “It’s fine,” he says again, even as he backs into the hall. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.”

 

It probably only takes her a few seconds to reach him, which is longer than it takes her to realize it’s a bad idea. His back hits the wall and he slides down it, the whole time repeating, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s _fine_ ,” less for her now and more for himself.

 

“Boyd!” she calls shrilly, shoving her hands behind her back and glancing in panic down at her feet. Some distant part of Stiles’ mind registers the hilarity of this situation. He is _terrified_ of a girl giving herself a pedicure. The tiny floral spacers between her toes don’t even detract from his horror. “ _Boyd!_ ”

 

He must hear her from wherever he is because he comes pounding up the stairs, stopping short at the sight in the hallway.

 

From a distance, especially because of their position, he must think it’s blood too.

 

“Nail polish,” Erica says quickly. “Nail polish, it’s nail polish, but he’s- can you-?”

 

“Yes,” Boyd says, relief flooding his face, even though Stiles doesn’t feel relieved at _all_. Boyd hurries over and puts a hand on the small of Erica’s back, directing her back into their room. Stiles hears him murmur, “It’s fine, babe,” as she passes, but she still looks as horrified as Stiles feels.

 

Boyd shuts the door behind her and plops himself in front of Stiles on the ground.

 

“Hi,” he says, in his deep, calm voice. Something about it is grounding. “Do you want me to come near you or stay away?”

 

“I want Derek.”

 

“I know, but he’s not home right now. Do you want me to text him to come back?”

 

“I…”

 

Yes, he wants Derek. But no, he doesn’t want Derek to think he’s a giant baby who needs to be watched all the time. He hardly goes out as it is.

 

But _fuck_ , he wants Derek.

 

“What, did Erica see another spider?” Isaac’s voice asks, before he appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh.”

 

“It’s alright,” Boyd says calmly. “Erica accidentally upset him. But he’s going to be _fine_ , right Stiles?”

 

“He’s breathing pretty fast,” Isaac says. He slowly edges closer till his tall form is towering over Stiles. He must realize he looks pretty intimidating all the way up there, and he slowly sits down next to Boyd. “Hey, Stiles. You want to breathe with me for a minute? I don’t want you to start hyperventilating.”

 

And _no_ , Stiles _doesn’t_ want that, he wants to be a fucking adult like everyone else and not freak out over the stupidest things in the world and not need to be spoken to like a spooked horse and not be completely and utterly pathetic.

 

But he _is_ , so he nods.

 

“Okay,” Isaac says, giving him an encouraging smile.

 

Then he starts slowly breathing in and out, and Stiles does his best to follow along. He stares at his knees, because he feels stupid looking at Isaac and Boyd, but he’s embarrassed to realize his legs are shaking a little. He grabs both of them with his hands, forcibly steadying them as he follows Isaac’s breathing. Then he looks at Isaac’s bare, very human feet, which are right in front of his own. It’s very weird to think that there are claws in there. How does he even fit a bone _and_ a claw in his smallest toe? Werewolves are weird. It’s not _his_ fault they have freaky anatomy, and that Kali liked to show it off.

 

“Hey, that’s better,” Boyd says, and Stiles realizes he’s managed to regulate his breathing. “Good.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs. He still feels kind of unsteady, but it wasn’t… _that_ big a deal. Or at least that’s what he’ll tell himself. “Yeah, thanks.”

 

“Should I call Derek?” Isaac asks.

 

Stiles hesitates.

 

He’s _fine_ , he is, but he always feels so much safer with Derek around. Then again, he doesn’t want to make Derek worry every time he leaves the house.

 

“Why don’t you come sit with me and Erica for a while?” Boyd offers. “And then if you want to, you can tell Derek what happened when he comes home.”

 

Stiles finds himself nodding.

 

 Boyd pats Stiles’ leg and stands, and Stiles shakily follows him to his feet.

 

“Hang on,” he says, before quietly rapping on the door. “Erica?”

 

Stiles can’t make out what she’s saying, but apparently Boyd can, because he murmurs, “Okay, it’s okay. Do you want me to help?” Silence, at least to Stiles’ ears, and then Boyd says, “Well I’m going to. Give me a second.” Turning to Isaac, who’s standing too now, he adds, “Can you wait with Stiles for a few minutes?”

 

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

 

“Sure,” Isaac interrupts. “I’ve been meaning to show him this dumb sketch from SNL that Cora sent me, anyway.”

 

Boyd claps him on the shoulder and slips into his room, shutting the door behind him.

 

“Let them coddle you for a while,” Isaac says, pulling out his phone. “Speaking from experience, it’s kind of nice when you’re feeling like shit. Derek is great, but those two can be really sweet. But _don’t_ tell them I said so.”

 

* * *

 

After a while Boyd reappears at the door, Erica standing meekly behind him. Her regular nails are out now, and she’s wearing socks. Her fingers are red, but from scrubbing now, not nail polish.

 

“Did you take it off?” Stiles asks needlessly.

 

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “All gone.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, frowning.

 

She shrugs, casting her eyes away.

 

“It’s alright,” Boyd says, reaching back to lace their fingers together. “She likes painting them, she’ll redo it soon. Maybe with the door locked.”

 

Stiles manages a weak smile at the little jab at both of them.

 

“Well… Thanks. For, uh. Yeah.”

 

“No problem,” Erica says, giving a strained smile in return. “Come sit. Isaac, you want to hang out?”

 

“Well, I’m supposed to be writing a really important paper, so… Yes, I do. Dibs on Erica’s chair.”

 

“Knock yourself out,” Erica says, looking more cheerful as he brushes past Stiles to perch on a plush, pink arm chair in the corner of the room. “That means you’re stuck on the bed with us, Stiles.”

 

Stiles closes the door behind himself and follows them to the bed, sitting down next to Erica, who’s leaning against the headboard. He notices they changed the sheets from pale blue, which Erica spilled the polish on, to a dark gray, and can’t help feeling a little guilty. But then Boyd slides into bed next to him, and drapes one arm over Stiles’ shoulders so he can rest one hand on Erica’s, distracting him.

 

“If you want, you can sit next to her,” Stiles offers. “Not trying to third wheel.”

 

“I’m good if you are."

 

“He’s secretly a big softie,” Isaac says in a mock whisper. “Why do you think I called the chair?”

 

“Shut up,” Boyd laughs, grabbing a sock from the nightstand and throwing it at him.

 

“Gotta love your whole pack if you’re going to be Second someday,” Erica singsongs.

 

“Yeah, I’m so _jealous_ ,” Isaac says, rolling his eyes. “You may be his Second, but I was his first.”

 

“Terrible joke. _Boooooo_.”

 

“Plus, it makes it sound like you guys had sex,” Boyd adds, huffing a laugh.

 

“Why does everything have to be about sex with you heathens?” Isaac asks, brows crinkled in disgust. “And Derek? God, no thanks.” With a smirk, he adds, “No offense, Stiles.”

 

“Derek and I haven’t _had_ sex, thank you very much.”

 

He feels much more relaxed now, sandwiched between Boyd and Erica and facing Isaac. And wow, is it a step up from how he felt about werewolves just a few months ago.

 

“Seriously?” Erica asks. “He’s hot. What’re you waiting for?”

 

“Contrary to what I’m sure you believe, most people _don’t_ do it every day,” Isaac says, stretching his long legs so his heels can rest on the foot of the bed.

 

“Twice a day, thank you,” Erica says, smiling sweetly at him.

 

“ _Erica_ ,” Boyd grumbles, squeezing her shoulder.

 

“Oh, Stiles, you’re not third-wheeling,” Stiles mocks. “No, no, just sit between us while we talk about our sex life.”

 

“Contrary to Isaac’s _propaganda_ ,” Erica says, “we _do_ have other interests.”

 

“Interests besides boning?” Isaac asks, innocently batting his eyes at them.

 

“Sure,” she purrs. “For instance, Boyd loves to read, while you have a C in English.”

 

“A C _plus_! And only because my teacher is a bitch.”

 

“And I love fashion, while you’ve been wearing the same three scarves every winter since… I don’t know, birth?”

 

“They’re _comfortable_.”

 

Ignoring him, she continues, “Boyd likes to work out, while _you_ are a stick.”

 

“You’re a stick, too!”

 

“A very curvy stick,” she says, grinning.

 

Isaac is actually super muscular, even if he’s leaner than Boyd, so obviously she’s just fucking with him.

 

“ _And_ ,” she goes on. “I’m learning to bake, while _you_ are still mooching off Peter.”

 

“You burned a batch of brownies two days ago!”

 

“And yet you ate them.”

 

“I wasn’t going to pass on _brownies_ ,” he grumbles.

 

Erica smirks.

 

“So, as you can _see_ , Boyd and I are wonderful, well-rounded people, and _you_ are just jealous.”

 

“Only thing I’m jealous of is that you have sex twice a day. Goddamn.”

 

“Let’s get out of here while we can, Stiles,” Boyd mutters in his ear. “They love to rile each other up.”

 

“Just defending _you_ , _Vernon_ ,” Erica says, reaching over to flick him.

 

“Mm, sorry, _dear_ ,” Boyd says, kissing her hand as she pulls it back.

 

“ _An-y-way_ ,” Isaac says flatly. “Now I want brownies.”

 

“I’ll try to bring some home from work,” Erica says, sounding much more amicable now.

 

“Or I can pick some up at the store later if you want,” Boyd says.

 

And oh. Yeah. Stiles forgot Boyd was supposed to go to the store.

 

“Oh, thanks dude,” Isaac says. “You know, I could actually use some stuff from the store. Maybe I’ll come with you.”

 

“God, I hate you guys for just being able to leave the house,” Stiles sighs.

 

“Maybe you can come,” Isaac says. “I’ll ask Derek.”

 

“Good luck with that,” Erica mutters. “In the meantime, I’m putting Netflix on.”

 

* * *

 

_**Isaac Lahey [4:37 p.m.]** _

_Lookee!!!!!!!_

 

Attached is a picture of Stiles cuddled up in bed with Boyd and Erica, and Derek can’t help smiling down at his phone. He saves it to his camera roll, making a mental note to print it.

_**Derek Hale [4:37 p.m.]** _

_Very cute. What’s going on?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:38 p.m.]** _

_Love this thing where you’re on high alert at all times so you actually answer my texts promptly_

_We’re just chilling upstairs_

_**Derek Hale [4:38 p.m.]** _

_I see that_

_Glad you’re all hanging out_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:38 p.m.]** _

_:)_

_Soooooo… Can I ask you a favor?_

_**Derek Hale [4:39 p.m.]** _

_What?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:39 p.m.]** _

_LOVE the enthusiasm_

_**Derek Hale [4:39 p.m.]** _

_The ‘soooooooooooooooo’ was not very encouraging._

_**Isaac Lahey [4:39 p.m.]** _

_I feel like you added a few O’s in there_

_**Derek Hale [4:40 p.m.]** _

_Aren’t you supposed to be asking me a favor?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:40 p.m.]** _

_…how do you feel about us taking Stiles shopping?_

_**Derek Hale [4:40 p.m.]** _

_Who is ‘us’?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:37 p.m.]** _

_Me, Erica, Boyd_

_**Derek Hale [4:40 p.m.]** _

_Mall or groceries_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:40 p.m.]** _

_Groceries_

_**Derek Hale [4:40 p.m.]** _

_Why does he need to go?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:41 p.m.]** _

_He doesn’t, he just wants to_

_**Derek Hale [4:41 p.m.]** _

_Why?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:41 p.m.]** _

_I dunno, cause he wants to get out of the house. Besides, there was a little incident earlier, Erica accidentally spooked him. Not that I told you that. It’d probably be nice for him get out for a while._

_**Derek Hale [4:41 p.m.]** _

_Is he alright? Should I come home early?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:41 p.m.]** _

_He’s fine. It had something to do with nail polish, I don’t really know. But now we’re sitting with him and watching TV and stuff and it’s all good, no worries._

_**Derek Hale [4:41 p.m.]** _

_Let me know if he changes his mind. I can get out of here if I have to._

_**Isaac Lahey [4:42 p.m.]** _

_He’s fine, but I’ll let you know if anything changes._

_ANYWAY_

_I’m being yelled at to text faster_

_Can we take him shopping?_

_**Derek Hale [4:43 p.m.]** _

_Is Peter home?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:43 p.m.]** _

_He went to the library_

_Do we seriously have to take him with us?_

_**Derek Hale [4:43 p.m.]** _

_Depends. Do you want to get kidnapped in the middle of Stop & Shop?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:43 p.m.]** _

_Sighhhh._

_So can we go when he gets back?_

_**Derek Hale [4:45 p.m.]** _

_If he takes you, yes. I want one of you to drive, leave Peter in the back with Stiles. I want at least three of you, always including Peter, with him at all times. Do not leave whatever aisle he’s in._

_**Isaac Lahey [4:45 p.m.]** _

_Gotcha_

_What if Peter says no?_

_**Derek Hale [4:45 p.m.]** _

_Tell him Derek says yes._

_**Isaac Lahey [4:45 p.m.]** _

_Lmao, okay dude_

_I see you, trying to help Stiles out ;)_

_**Derek Hale [4:45 p.m.]** _

_It’s not that I don’t want him to go out, I just want him to be safe._

_**Isaac Lahey [4:45 p.m.]** _

_I know, I know_

_We’ve got him, Der_

_**Derek Hale [4:46 p.m.]** _

_Tell him to bring the wolfsbane Allison gave him too, alright?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:46 p.m.]** _

_Caaaaaaan do_

_**Derek Hale [4:46 p.m.]** _

_Alright. Call me immediately if anything seems wrong. Okay?_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:46 p.m.]** _

_Yup_

_Thanks Der_

Derek sighs.

 

_**Derek Hale [4:47 p.m.]** _

_If anything happens to him, I will kill you guys_

_**Isaac Lahey [4:47 p.m.]** _

_That’s the spirit! :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT!!! Someone pointed out that the end of this chapter didn't post! I'm trying to update it but ao3 literally won't allow me. I'm very confused and frustrated. I'll get that up ASAP. EDIT 2: Fixed it!!!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed more pack bonding, lemme know what you thought! Happy Halloweekend! I hope at least one of you is going as a werewolf ;)


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated to this fic, but there's something fun in the end notes!

“Isaac, if you drive over one more pothole in my car, I will kill you,” Peter says calmly. “Understand?”

 

“Geez, relax,” Isaac says, smirking at him in the rearview mirror. “Not my fault they don’t pave the roads.”

 

“Technically, it’s Derek’s fault,” Erica adds. “Tell him to get on that.”

 

Peter doesn’t look amused.

 

“Perhaps, but it’s _your_ fault you’re a horrible driver. Erica, you’re driving home.”

 

“Hell yeah,” she says, snapping her gum.

 

Peter turns to glare at her.

 

“Boyd. You. _You_ are driving back.”

 

“Can’t. I don’t have my license on me.”

 

Peter gives a longsuffering sigh.

 

“Stiles, I’m about to stick _you_ up there.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, just because you three are werewolves doesn’t mean you have to stuff your bodies with as much crap as physically possible.”

 

“Literally the only reason I took the bite was so that I could eat Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Pop-Tarts all day every day,” Isaac says, unperturbed.

 

“Very judgmental today, Peter,” Erica adds, tossing a bag of chips into the cart. “Why so grouchy?”

 

“I’m supposed to be settled down with my new book right now, drinking tea and pretending I don’t live in a house full of twenty-somethings. Instead I’m accompanying a swarm of them to the store.”

 

“Well, you can pretend we don’t exist the moment we get home. Promise.”

 

“How generous of you.”

 

* * *

 

“Weird how much you miss something like grocery shopping,” Stiles says, grabbing a box of cereal and carefully perching it on the piled-high cart. “It’s nice to be out.”

 

“Surprised Derek is okay with this,” Peter mutters, scanning the shelves. “He’s so protective I wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly popped out from behind the baby food display.”

 

“Only protective cause he cares about me.”

 

“How _sweet_ ,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose. “Doesn’t care if _I_ get kidnapped. Just sends _me_ off to the store.”

 

“No one’s gonna do anything in the middle of a grocery store,” Erica says, ruffling Peter’s hair.

 

He grabs her wrist, shoving it away, and carefully fixes his hair.

 

“ _Relax_ ,” she laughs. Stiles is glad to see her looking much happier than before. “God, you act like we’re making you spend your last day on _Earth_ here or something.”

 

“If it was my last day on Earth, I bet I would’ve still been dragged here. Now let’s get on line before you manage to fill my _entire_ house with junk food.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh my God, can we stop at Arby’s?” Stiles asks, staring out the window with wide eyes as they approach.

 

“No,” Peter says, at the same time that Erica says, “Yes!”

 

She quickly switches lanes and pulls into the drive-thru, making Peter groan.

 

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

 

“With burgers?” Boyd asks, pulling out his wallet. “I think your metabolism can handle it.”

 

“If _anything_ gives me a heart attack, it’ll be you four, not crappy fast food. I mean, Arby’s? _Really_?”

 

“They have curly fries!” Stiles defends.

 

“Don’t let him get to you, Stiles,” Isaac says. “Be honored. He lumped you in with all the other young whippersnappers who are slowly killing him—you’re officially part of the pack now.”

 

“Yes, be honored,” Peter says flatly. “Boyd, put your wallet away, you’re not paying.”

 

“Aw, we _knew_ you loved us, Peter,” Erica says, pulling up to the speaker.

 

“You’re also not eating in my car,” he grumbles, passing her some cash, “so don’t get too excited.”

 

* * *

 

“How was your day?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles closer against his chest as they lay together in bed. It’s very rare for them to spend a whole day apart, and even rarer for both of them to have been out of the house.

 

“It was good,” Stiles says, smiling to himself. “It was nice to get out. Peter complained the _whole_ time we were out, but then he bought us fast food on the way home, so. I’ll call it a win.”

 

“Doubt he was really annoyed. Peter just likes to complain about anything related to the pack.”

 

“I’ve noticed. But he really does care about them. In his own, weird, crochety way.”

 

Derek laughs against the back of Stiles neck.

 

“Not a bad way of putting it.”

 

“How was your day?” Stiles asks.

 

“Very boring,” Derek sighs. “Just paper work and meetings and things. I wish I was home, I would’ve liked to take you out myself.”

 

“That’s okay,” he says, kissing the hand wrapped around both his own. “It wasn’t that eventful. It was just nice to get away for a little while.”

 

“I heard… there was a little mishap while I was gone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

 

Stiles feels his cheeks flame.

 

“Erica told you?”

 

“Isaac. He just said something happened, not what it was. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Stiles shrugs, but he flips over so he’s facing Derek.

 

“I dunno.”

 

“You could’ve called me, you know. I would’ve come home.”

 

“I know you would’ve, and I didn’t want to pull you away from your work.”

 

“I care about you a lot more than I care about signing documents and filling out forms.”

 

“Still,” Stiles says. “I’m an adult. I can handle things on my own. And Boyd and Isaac and Erica helped calm me down, anyway.”

 

“I know you _can_ , but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

 

“Blah, whatever. It’s fine. I’m good now.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it, though?” After a moment, he adds, “You don’t have to.”

 

“No, it’s probably a good thing if I do,” Stiles sighs. “But it was dumb.”

 

“Nothing that upsets you is ever dumb.”

 

“No, this was, trust me. Remember, like, a million years ago when you mentioned that Erica and Cora paint their claws sometimes?”

 

“Yes,” Derek says slowly.

 

“Well, I went up to Erica’s room to ask her something, and she was sitting in bed painting them.”

 

“Why would she even let you in if she had her claws out?” Derek asks, brow furrowed.

 

“She had music blasting and I just knocked, didn’t say who I was or anything. She wasn’t expecting me, I’ve never been up there before, and I obviously wasn’t expecting _that_.”

 

“No, of course not,” Derek murmurs, running his hand up and down Stiles’ back. Stiles would say something about not needing to be coddled, except it feels _really_ good. “So what happened?”

 

“She already had her claws painted blood red and was working on her toes, and everything was still shiny and wet, and some of the red was smudged on her fingers, and all of that plus seeing her clawed feet was just… _so_ reminiscent of Kali. And I just… freaked.”

 

“Fuck,” Derek breathes.

 

“Yeah, I know. So we kinda just stared at each other for a second, and then she leapt up from bed to try and comfort me, but obviously her coming towards me didn’t help, so I backed into the hallway and pretty much just crumbled to the ground like a useless wimp—”

 

“You’re not a-”

 

“—and then she freaked out, too, and started yelling for Boyd,” he continues, steamrolling over the platitude. “And then Boyd came and sent her back to their room to take the polish off, and Isaac came downstairs because he heard all the commotion, and then they helped me calm down. And then we all hung out in Boyd and Erica’s room till I felt better. So. Not horrendous overall.”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“I hate that you have to deal with this,” he says, after a moment. “I don’t know what to say, but… I’m sorry.” He presses his fingers more firmly into Stiles back. “And it’s going to be okay.”

 

“Maybe,” Stiles murmurs. “But even if we catch them and everything turns out best case scenario, I don’t think I’ll ever get over what they did to me.”

 

“I can’t say that you will,” Derek admits, voice low. “But I’m going to do whatever I can to help.”

 

* * *

 

“There’s only so much you can do, though. I’ll probably always be triggered by random shit, or at least it feels that way. I’ll probably always have these ugly fucking scars. Get to be reminded every time I look in the mirror.”

 

“Come on, this is healing really nicely,” Derek says, running his thumb over what used to be the huge gash in Stiles’ cheek. “It looks good, and I bet they’ll fade over time, even the ones on your back. This one really has gotten a _lot_ better.” 

 

“Not really,” Stiles says, shrugging self-consciously. “You just think that because it’s dark.”

 

Derek huffs a quiet laugh.

 

“I’ve seen you during the day, Stiles. And I can see pretty well in the dark too.”

 

He runs his thumb over it again. It’s much flatter than it used to be, and it’s light pink instead of harsh, scabbed-over red.

 

“Can you-” Stiles starts. He licks his lips. “Please don’t.”

 

He reaches up and sets his hand on Derek’s, carefully sliding it down to rest on his neck instead.

 

Derek blinks.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, quickly trying to pull his hand away, but Stiles keeps it firmly in place. “I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have-”

 

“No, it’s not that. It’s not you. Just like how it wasn’t Erica. It’s _them_ , you know? They ruin everything.” He sighs. “You know I don’t mind you touching me, or even my scars. I mean, you were just rubbing my back, so. Just _that_ one, after today, is… _God,_ that hurt.”

 

Derek wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what could possibly make it better.

 

“You ever seen _Holes_?” Stiles asks suddenly.

 

“The… movie with the kids at camp?” Stiles nods. “Yeah, Peter has a copy somewhere. Why?”

 

Derek’s not really sure what he’s is getting at—there aren’t any werewolves in that movie, as far as he can remember—but his strange tangents normally have a point.

 

“I don’t know if you remember,” he continues in a low voice, staring at some point just beyond Derek’s face. “But there’s this one scene where this lady, the warden, is pissed at this guy. And she has these long fingernails, and she paints them with this nail polish full of rattlesnake venom. And then she just… fucking _strikes_ this guy, and it leaves this huge, disgusting welt on his face, and he’s screaming and cursing and I remember being a kid and thinking how painful that must’ve been. And one time, I was getting on Kali’s nerves, and I didn’t even think I was being that bad, but out of _nowhere_ , she slapped me across the face. Claws out and everything. And of all the things in the world, I just remember thinking of that stupid scene, and how that’s probably about how much it hurt.” He gives a small, derisive laugh at his own expense. “I know that’s stupid. But uh. Blinding pain will do weird things to you, and that’s what it made me think of. And now what it makes me think of is Kali, which is…”

 

“Not good, I know,” Derek breathes, moving his hand so it’s cradling the back of Stiles’ head. He hates _all_ the alphas, but particularly Kali today. He’ll take pleasure in one day rending his claws through _their_ flesh. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. But we’re going to find them and we’re going to kill them. I promise.”

 

“But what if we don’t?” Stiles asks, voice so, so quiet. “What if we never do?”

 

Derek takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know the answer, and Stiles knows that.

 

“We’re going to,” he promises anyway. “I’m not going to let you live in fear forever.”

 

“It’s been months, Der. And _nothing_ has happened.”

 

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

 

“It’s not,” Stiles whispers. “I _know_ it’s not. It’s… There’s something so eerie about radio silence. There’s something _wrong_. I think they’re trying to lull me into a false sense of security, and it’s kind of working.”

 

“It’s not,” Derek insists, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. “It’s not, because you’re still here. You’re with me, and I’m going to keep you safe. No matter what, Stiles. I can’t lose anyone else I love. I won’t.”

 

“But you _might_ ,” Stiles says, almost urgently. “You might, and I need you to swear to me you won’t blame yourself if that happens.”

 

“Please don’t talk like that.”

 

“No, promise me,” he insists. “Promise me you won’t feel guilty.”

 

“How could I promise that?”

 

“Because you didn’t get me into this situation, and I honestly don’t know if you’ll be able to get me out. The only way that you’re involved in this at all is that you _saved me_. Right? So nothing that happens to me is your fault.”

 

“If I save you only to let you get hurt again, that _is_ my fault.”

 

“No, no, it’s not,” Stiles insists, clutching at Derek’s shirt. “It’s _not_.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“No, _listen_ ,” he says, twisting his fingers in the fabric. “You’re probably the only reason I’m even alive right now. Sure, I escaped, but how far do you think I would’ve gotten in the shape I was in? If you hadn’t risked your whole pack, after _everything you’ve been through_ , by taking me in, they would’ve found me, and maybe even killed me. So you saved my life, and you do it every single day. I would be dead or _worse_ without you. And even _if_ I end up back there, you gave me a few months of relief. And maybe that doesn’t sound like much, but you don’t know how desperate I was sometimes for one day, one _moment_ of fucking relief. And you gave that to me, and they can’t take it away.”

 

“But they _can_ ,” Derek says, voice ragged. “If I let something happen to you, then…”

 

He trails off, not even wanting to think about it.

 

“You let me talk to my dad,” Stiles continues, a weak smile on his face. “And Scott, and Melissa. You let me see my family again. And you… you practically gave me a new family, here, with you, and… that’s more than I ever thought possible. I thought I was going to die so many times. I felt like I was _never_ going to get out of there. But you saved me, and in the least corny way possible, you made my life worth living again. I’m not saying something is _going_ to happen to me, and I trust you to protect me, but some things are beyond our control. And if something goes wrong, it’s not your fault. I love you, Derek, and nothing they can do to me will make me stop loving you. Maybe it’s… _creepily_ early in the relationship to say something like that, but I mean it. You’re kind of my world now. And _obviously_ I don’t just love you because I’m grateful to you, you don’t see me falling for Allison, so don’t think it’s that. I just… _love_ you, and the alphas aren’t going to stop that. I know you’re going to do your best not to let me get hurt, and that’s all you can do. Okay?”

 

It doesn’t _feel_ soon, not to Derek, because he feels the exact same way.

 

He still has one hand cradled around Stiles’ head, the other curled underneath him, and he drags him close, burying his face in Stiles’ hair.

 

Stiles finally loosens his grip on Derek’s shirt as he burrows his face in his chest, instead.

 

“I love you,” Derek breathes. “And if something does happen, I will never stop loving you, and I will never stop looking for you. I mean it, Stiles. Never.”

 

Stiles nods vigorously, not moving away, and Derek pulls him impossibly closer.

 

“Never,” he says again, kissing the top of Stiles’ head. “You’re pack, and you’re mine, and I won’t lose you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In fantastic but unrelated news, I wrote a new one shot for the first time in a _year_. I used to write one shots so often, and then I lost alllll motivation for them and got wrapped up in this and my other WIP. But I _finally_ finished one, and here it is if some of you guys wanna check it out :P **[There Are No Wolves In California](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761940)** featuring hunter!Stiles and full-shift!Derek. Happy ending, I promise ;)
> 
> AAAAANYWAY, back to _this_ fic, lemme know what you thought of this chapter ;) ALSO!!! Thank you so much for giving this fic over 3,500 kudos, that's crazy and I love you guys soooooo much  <3


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here's hoping for a year full of writing, and no awful slumps like in the year from hell. For the first time, I feel confident saying I _will_ finish this fic this year. I think I jinxed myself in past years by saying so, lol, BUT ;) Now I'm certain. Thanks for your continued support, my loves  <3

“ _Deeeeerek_ ,” Stiles whines. “Come make out.”

 

“No.”

 

“Please?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’m going to jump off the roof.”

 

“Not if I beat you to it,” Derek says, not turning around.

 

He’s sitting at his desk, filling out paper work. Boring alpha stuff is apparently his plan for the whole day, and Erica is at work, and Cora and Isaac are in class, and Boyd is at a friend’s house, and Peter is _old_. Plus, his dad and Scott and Melissa are all at work, too, and Stiles has literally _nothing_ to do.

 

“I will _tackle_ you and jump off first.”

 

Stiles is spread-eagled on Derek’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. He’s been laying here doing nothing for at least forty-five minutes.

 

“You can't tackle me.”

 

“Fine, then I’ll jump off right next to you. I don’t care.”

 

"As romantic as that sounds,” Derek says, setting aside a finished form and finally turning around, "I’m _sure_ you can find something to do around here.”

 

“I haven’t so far.”

 

“That’s because you’ve been laying around complaining about how bored you are for the past hour.”

 

“Well I _am_.”

 

“So, _do_ something.”

 

“Like _what_?”

 

“I don’t know, but if your plan is to lounge around groaning about how bored you are all day, _I’ll_ throw you off the roof.”

 

“You wouldn’t.”

 

Derek leans forward suddenly like he’s going to get up, and Stiles rolls to the far side of the bed, laughing.

 

“You’re a _jerk_.”

 

“ _You’re_ a jerk,” Derek huffs. “You think I want to be filling out paperwork?”

 

“I think you should get a fucking secretary.”

 

“Why don’t I put _you_ to work? You like living here, don’t you?”

 

“You forget that I’m a librarian,” Stiles says, propping himself up on his elbows. “I am _used_ to boring clerical work.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Derek asks. He grabs half his paperwork and walks over to the bed, dropping it in front of Stiles. “Go ahead.”

 

“Very cute,” Stiles says, patting the stack of papers. “But I’m essentially on vacation right now. No work, no school, no nothing. Only the imminent threat of death hanging over my head.”

 

“You’re not going to die,” Derek says gruffly. He tousles Stiles’ hair and takes his work back. “Why don’t you try calling Allison?”

 

“Eh…”

 

“What, you think she’s busy?”

 

“I dunno. I don’t wanna bother her. She probably has plenty of other people to hang out with. _I’m_ the lonely one.”

 

“Which is why you should hang out with people and try to make friends. Ask her to come over or something.”

 

“Alright, I guess,” Stiles says, like it’s a giant chore. “I’ll _try_.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“If she says no, I have plenty of forms for you to fill out.”

 

“Okay, _okay_ ,” Stiles says, sitting up and pulling out his phone. “Geez, don’t be such a sour wolf.”

 

* * *

 

_**Stiles Stilinski [11:02 a.m.]** _

_I’m so boreddd oh my god_

_**Allison Argent [11:07 a.m.]** _

_Ugh, me too. My car broke down so I have nothing to do. Dad doesn’t want me taking his in case there’s an emergency :|_

_**Stiles Stilinski [11:07 a.m.]** _

_Goddammit, Allison! I was going to ask if you wanted to come over :(_

_**Allison Argent [11:08 a.m.]** _

_lollllll_

_Good timing_

_I mean… you could come over here if you wanted. And if someone wanted to drive you and Derek says it’s okay and everything_

_**Stiles Stilinski [11:10 a.m.]** _

_I don’t need Derek’s permission :((((_

 

_**Allison Argent [11:11 a.m.]** _

_Does that mean you already have it?_

_**Stiles Stilinski [11:11 a.m.]** _

_Listen………_

_**Allison Argent [11:11 a.m.]** _

_See you soon Stiles ;)_

* * *

 

Derek is really, really glad Chris and Allison don’t live in the old Argent home anymore.

 

He never drives by the place if he can avoid it, and he would hate the idea of dropping Stiles off there. He knows Chris and Allison are safe, but that house is full of too many bad memories.

 

He pulls up outside and stops the car, waiting for Stiles to get out.

 

“You don’t want to come in for a minute?” Stiles asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

 

“That house probably has every anti-werewolf precaution known to man. I don’t even think I _could_ come in.”

 

Stiles laughs.

 

“Fair, fair. Well, I love you. Thanks for driving.”

 

Stiles leans in like he’s going to peck Derek on the cheek, but jerks back at the last second, and awkwardly pretends to brush something off his shoulder instead.

 

“Probably shouldn’t do that in public, huh?” Derek murmurs.

 

Stiles huffs a laugh.

 

“No, I guess not. Man, I hate having a famous boyfriend.”

 

“Well, I love you too,” Derek says, brushing their fingers together for a moment before unlocking the car door. “Now get out, stranger.”

 

“Ha, ha,” Stiles says, giving him a flat look as he gets out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, _Alpha Hale_.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles slams the door, and watches him climb the front steps and wait for someone to answer the door. He doesn’t drive away till Allison comes and lets Stiles inside and he hears the door lock firmly behind them.

 

He drives home slowly, not looking forward to more paperwork.

 

* * *

 

“How’re you doing?” Allison asks, leading Stiles through the house. It’s not as big as Derek’s, but it’s much too large for two people. The Argents clearly have money, too. “Dad’s not home, so it’s just you and me.”

 

“Wow, I’m surprised he felt safe leaving you alone with me.”

 

“God, don’t worry about that. A werewolf could never get into this house, and they’d have to be stupid to try.”

 

Stiles laughs to himself that Derek was right. That must be why _he_ felt safe leaving Stiles here, too.

 

“Well that’s a relief. So, uh. Whatcha wanna do?”

 

“I was thinking maybe I could invite a few other people over, if you felt up to meeting anyone. If not, we can just watch TV and stuff.”

 

“I’m up for whatever,” he says. “Maybe it’d be nice to see some other humans.”

 

“Yeah, you’re kind of outnumbered at Derek’s, huh?”

 

“Six to one.”

 

“Well c’mon, I’ll invite a couple people over and we can order pizza or something.”

 

Stiles grins.

 

His day is already getting better.

 

* * *

 

“Danny, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard _anyone_ say.”

 

“Oh, because _you’re_ a relationship expert,” he mutters. He and Lydia were the only ones able to make it today, but Stiles likes Lydia, and Danny seems cool. “You’ve been single for… how long now?”

 

“I’m single because I’ve decided I’m no longer going to date doucebags,” Lydia says primly. “You, meanwhile, have been cheated on by the same guy _three_ times.”

 

Danny rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m done with him now. For good.”

 

“Good,” Allison says, grabbing a second slice of pizza. “You can do a lot better.”

 

“You really could, dude,” Stiles says, taking another for himself, too. “A nice, funny engineering major who works out? Why did you _ever_ stick with a cheater?”

 

“He was _also_ a nice, funny engineering major who works out,” Danny mutters. “Well, maybe not so nice.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Lydia says, nudging his ankle with her boot. “You could go to the Jungle or something and find a better guy in two seconds.”

 

“The _jungle_?” Stiles asks, frowning.

 

“It’s a club,” Allison laughs.

 

“Gay club,” Danny adds. “There’s also Sinema.”

 

“Sinema isn’t worth it,” Lydia chimes in. “You’re looking for a serious relationship, not a hookup, and that place is pretty wild.”

 

“Yeah, well maybe I could use some fun,” he mutters.

 

“If you’re looking for fun, Grindr is pretty good,” Stiles says, before he thinks anything of it. They all turn to look at him. “Um. So I’ve heard. Y’know. From people.”

 

He feels himself flush bright red.

 

He does technically have an account, but it was mostly just to ogle hot guys, not to actually get with anyone. He definitely _would’ve_ hooked up with someone if being a sheriff’s son didn’t make him overly cautious of the fact that random strangers online could murder or kidnap him or something.

 

It’s a _little_ fucked up that he got kidnapped anyway.

 

“Didn’t know you were looking for hookups,” Danny says, stealing the crust from Allison’s plate instead of taking a slice of his own.

 

“Oh, well actually-”

 

“Maybe we could have a little fun.”

 

He winks.

 

_What?_

“What?”

 

“Yeah, why don’t you come to my place tonight?” he asks, smirking. “Plan to stay the night. I like to cuddle.”

 

“I-” Stiles stammers. “Oh. That’s sweet, but-”

 

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Danny says, making the girls laugh. “Allison told me you have a boyfriend, dude.”

 

 _Oh_.

 

Damn, that’s _Stiles’_ level of being a little shit.

 

“Wow, you don’t toy with a guy’s emotions like that, Danny,” he says, mock-outraged. “It’s not attractive, alright?”

 

 “You said I was funny earlier,” Danny reminds him, grinning. “And hey, if you weren’t already taken…”

 

“I can’t tell if you’re kidding and I’m not gonna ask,” Stiles says, raising his hands in surrender. “For the first time in my life, I _am_ happily taken.”

 

Danny laughs again, eyes crinkling.

 

“I think I _will_ probably head to the Jungle later,” he says, kicking his shoes off and pulling his feet up on the couch. “Even if all I manage to pick up is a _drink_ , because I could use one.”

 

“Margaritas are better than men, anyway,” Lydia says, and Stiles thinks that sounds like something a fifty-year-old woman would have embroidered on a pillow. “Isn’t that right, Allison?”

 

“Should’ve known I wouldn’t escape unscathed,” she sighs.

 

“Still that Isaac thing?” Stiles asks.

 

“Why are you all like this?” she groans. “I said he’s cute _one time_ and you’ve all latched on like pit bulls.”

 

“One time _today_ , maybe,” Lydia mutters.

 

“If you say one word to him, I will kill you,” Allison says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully at Stiles. “Swear to God.”

 

“You’re friends with him?” Danny asks.

 

“Yeah, I know him from class,” Stiles lies. As far as Danny knows, that’s also where he knows Allison and Lydia from. “He’s a cool guy.”

 

“And he’s also a _Hale_ ,” Allison says. “So I don’t exactly think there’ll be a fairytale ending.”

 

Danny frowns.

 

“Thought you guys were making peace with the Hales.”

 

“We _are_ , but that doesn’t mean one would _date_ me.”

 

“Well, he won’t if you don’t ask.”

 

“That’s some Romeo and Juliet bullshit that’s just _not_ worth it,” she sighs. “Give me a few months; crushes pass.”

 

“You sound like you could use a drink too,” Danny laughs. “Maybe we could go to the bar tonight.”

 

“I’m in,” Lydia says. “I’m working hard to avoid physics homework.”

 

“How about you, Stiles. Up for it?”

 

“Oh, uh… Not tonight, sorry. You guys have fun though.”

 

Allison frowns, obviously aware why he can’t go.

 

“We’ll worry about that later,” she says. “For now, I think it’s time to pick apart _Lydia’s_ love life.”

 

* * *

 

Derek pulls up outside Allison’s house and texts Stiles that he’s arrived.

 

Stiles tells him to wait five minutes, so Derek decides to check email, praying Jennifer hasn’t forwarded any more boring documents to him. He’s so busy scrolling that he jumps when someone knocks on his window.

 

“Oh, Chris,” he says, rolling it down. “Didn’t see you there.”

 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Chris says, a small smile on his face. “Didn’t know you could startle a werewolf so easily.”

 

Derek sighs, but his ears are burning.

 

“I was busy reading my email. I’ve been swamped with work.”

 

“I know the feeling,” Chris says, patting the windowsill in solidarity. “You have a minute to talk?”

 

Derek tries not to let that make him nervous.

 

“Sure. Stiles said he’d be out in a few minutes.”

 

“Good. I just wanted to say that Allison and I haven’t been having much luck, and it’s up to you how to proceed from here. If I was younger, if I had a more experienced partner—” _like Victoria_ , Derek thinks, _like Kate, like Gerard—_ “then I could do more, but as is… I can’t go running off to Colorado, Nebraska, Mississippi every time I get a tip. Even if some tip really _is_ about them, they could just be stirring up trouble to lure me out of California, so they can nab Stiles without any hunters around. And I have to either take Allison with me, or leave her here, and neither of those are great options.”

 

The _that’s why it’s better to have a hunting family_ goes unsaid.

 

“I’ll keep up with this case as long as you want me to, but I’m sure you’ve noticed it hasn’t gone anywhere so far, and I can’t guarantee results. The alphas could be holed up anywhere in the world. Hunting was easier before everyone knew about werewolves. Now if someone hears strange howling in the woods, it could be any random wolf, and it’s not something that makes word spread. In this situation, I think my energy is better spent in Beacon Hills, protecting Stiles up close, unless I get a _serious_ tip.”

 

“I get it,” Derek says, rubbing a hand over his temple. God, today is giving him a headache. “That sounds fair.”

 

“I’m not giving up on this,” Chris says firmly. “I don’t like to give up on these things. But I think that at this point, we have to change tactics. Alright?”

 

“Alright,” he sighs. “Thanks for letting me know.”

 

“You got it,” Chris says, reaching to shake his hand through the window. “He’ll be alright, Derek. I’m not saying it won’t be messy, but we’ll resolve this. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Derek says, just as Stiles opens the front door. “Thank you, Chris.”

 

Chris, who’d glanced over his shoulder at Stiles, turns back to Derek.

 

“He’ll be alright,” he says again, dragging a hand over his scruff. “We’ll make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just figured I would put it out there that Danny's ex is _not_ Ethan. He's that guy that Danny always refers to as simply 'my ex' in the show. Fuck that guy.  
>  Also, thank you so much for 100,000 hits! That's awesome! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're enjoying so far! Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [stilesbansheequeen](http://stilesbansheequeen.tumblr.com/)!


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